# MG course



## CyberWar (Aug 30, 2014)

It's a late September day, and today I'm qualifying as a machine gunner.

Being a machine gunner is the stuff of legends. Sort of. You are the guy who lays down 80% of your squad's total firepower upon the enemy. You are also the premium target for enemy snipers. You are also the first guy that any self-respecting enemy will throw or shoot a grenade at. In other words, you are the first guy that's going to die in an open confrontation, and everyone respects you for that.

On the bright side, you are also the first guy of your squad who will see Valhalla and will be able to warm up seats for the rest. Of course, that depends solely on your belief in Valhalla and other elements of Norse mythology. But if you are content with the potential to die a heroic death in glorious battle, than the job is exactly for you.

Dying a death worthy of my ancestors has been a kind of obsession for me. Obviously, I never mentioned it in the psych evaluation when enlisting. Few people these days would understand, docs certainly not being ones of them. Well, frankly, my imagined ancestors, anyway. I know my grandfather served with the 15th Waffen-SS grenadiers, fighting all the way to Berlin before surrender and earning a 1st Class Iron Cross in the process, and my great-grandfather fought with the Whites during the Russian civil war and with the national government during the Independence War, but my father's side remains a mystery to me. So I can only hope he had equally illustrious men as his ancestors to live up to. In any case, this obsession has partly fuelled my desire to become a machine gunner, the most popular guy among enemy snipers and grenadiers.

The other part is, of course, the moment where you get to fuck shit up with heavy firepower. The more DAKKA, the better. DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA, accompanied with psychotic laughter, to be more exact (forgive me all non-Warhammer40k-fanatics). I am much like a little child when it comes to machine guns - any new piece or a chance to shoot a new one brings a similar reaction to a child receiving a Christmas gift from me, the butt of many jokes in my battalion. The battalion commander himself likes to quip at it whenever he sees me. At the same time, everyone knows that I also take my passion dead-serious, and know I will get my job done when the time comes. But until that time comes, I've decided to make the best out of shooting things up at the government's expense.

Under the influence of Hollywood films, I've taken to wearing a plain green headscarf in place of the standard field cap or helmet, like all true machine-gunners supposedly must. This has rendered my appearance more akin to Russian Spetznaz troops, even though I make no pretense to being anything comparable to such beastly war machines as them. Hog, one of my comrades, who also shares the same specialty, has also picked up the habit, not so much to show off as because the headscarf doesn't disrupt vision, an aspect that I too appreciate.

In any case, this current exercise is my first formal qualification in shooting an MG.

---

Due to the remoteness of my town, it takes quite a while for me to get to the battalion. I'm late, and Blondie is pretty pissed when she picks me up near the battalion after I call her. As she remarks, a few minutes later, and I'd have to remain with the infantry for another year. She delivers me to the gentle hands of Sarge, who promptly rips me a new one and orders me to independently give 20 before each exercise. I honestly oblige, since the punishment is deserved.

The weather is miserable to say the least. Dark, overcast and generally shitty sky with frequent showers of vicious cold rain - the "infantry sunshine", as we sometimes term it. Nonetheless, I'm overjoyed, since it is my first time with an MG and combat ammunition - for the next 24 hours, we will be shooting nothing but live rounds.

The MGs that we are going to work with are Ksp58, the Swedish mod for FN MAG. A 7.62mm general-purpose MG, the Ksp has an adjustible firing mode, from puny 100 rounds per minute to the thunderous roar of 800 infantry-mowing rounds. It's heavy enough to keep the recoil to a minimum and is thus pretty accurate at distances up to 500 metres. While not quite as intimidating as either Browning .50 or MG42, it does get the job done, and that's all that really matters.

Sarge starts the introduction by dividing us in pairs and explaining the basics - how to dismantle and assemble the gun. That is an easy thing that I get done without much problem. My partner, at least for the start, is Z., the lad from a town near mine who looks much younger than he actually is.

Then comes the first exercise - stationary targets at 100 metres. I do my 20 penal push-ups as instructed, previously instructing my partner to testify that I have carried out my punishment should anyone ask about it. We then proceed to the firing line, each with a 100-round ammo belt on our hands. I pull short, well-aimed bursts into the targets, when Sarge whacks me on the helmet with a stick.

"Goddamn it, quit shooting like a sniper, J.! You're a fucking machine-gunner, for Jingo's sake! Your goal is to suppress the enemy and let your teammates fuck him up, so give those goddamn ass-ramming targets a proper suppressive fire so they don't stick their fucking ugly snouts out of their trenches!" he bellows at me. I do my best to oblige and pull decent long bursts so the tracers riccochet in the sky, marking my aim before they do.

When I'm done, me and my partner change roles, and I spot for him, correcting his aim as necessary. Z. turns out to be a lesser shot than me, but still scores enough hits on the target to pass this exercise.

Afterwards, it's reloading time. Normally, these MGs would use pre-loaded disintegrating belts, but for training purposes, we use reloadable non-disintegrating belts. Suffice to say that loading up 2000 rounds over the course of a day is a rather painful ordeal for fingers not accustomed to the task.

The next exercise is more demanding. We are expected to switch between target groups at 100 and 200 metres. At first, I don't get the idea and try to wipe the more distant targets off the range until a whack of Sarge's stick and a profanity-laced explanation corrects my aim.

"Goddamn it, J., quit shooting like a fucking Rambo! First, get these two paper sand-nigger pieces of shite here, and then whack that squad over there!" Sarge bellows, "See those eight paper motherfuckers over there?! They are coming at you, they want to fuck you up! Hit the from the center and go first to the left, and then to the right!"

This reminds me of my very first live-fire exercise in the Student Battalion, the one I first enlisted in. Our captain, who was supervising our first live-fire exercise, had noticed my penchant for mean race jokes and promptly exploited it to motivate me on a speed-shooting exercise when I asked whether we'll have enough time to shoot all the rounds.

"Look at those targets, J.! Think of them as a bunch of chinks! They are breeding over there behind the hill and coming at you, and you have to whack them all before they get you!" he had said.

On that occasion, I had promptly hit all the targets, and remember the tutelage of my wise former captain now. So when the command is given, I pull long, aimed bursts at the targets as Sarge has instructed. First, two bursts at the near targets. Then, a long burst going to the left at the distant ones. Then another to the right, going from the center. The imaginary Chinese troops drop like flies before me, even though me or my country has no enmity towards China for the time being, and I feel like one of those Korean War vets for an instant. Obviously, the paper chinks aren't shooting back at me, but that's something my imagination can easily make up for.

Since there are only six pairs allowed on the range at any one time, there's a lot of down time between exercises, useful for reloading, taking a smoke and a general break. The sun is setting, and soon it will be dark, but night-firing exercises are even more fun, as I have already observed before.

Before the nightfall, we are instructed to load extra tracers in our belts so we can see where our shots go at night. In addition, the grenadiers exercising with Carl Gustav recoilless rifles set up to shoot illumination rounds for us.

This time, we shoot at moving targets which lift up for a second or so, briefly illuminated by a flashing light simulating muzzle flash. The Carl Gustavs thunder, the light of their illumination rounds turning night into day. Flare guns in our instructors' hands pop, shooting bright parachute flares high in the air. Machine-guns roar, spewing streaks of bright tracers into the night sky as they riccochet from the ground. 

I am for a moment thrown 100 years back, in the dark days of the Great War where my ancestors fought. I am one with them, lying in the trenches as German troops charge towards me, the thunder of artillery shaking the ground and Maxim guns scything the enemy down like grass. Valiant Latvian men in the trenches fix bayonets, preparing to go over the top into glorious battle for their fatherland, then a part of the Russian Empire. The shrill tune of officers' whistles pierces the air and the field is overwhelmed by a thunderous battle-cry as my ancestors go over the top, charging into glorious battle, shells howling and shrapnel bursting around them. Young men fall like cherry petals in a spring breeze, and sons of gods ride down from the sky, gathering the souls of the fallen and taking them by hand to the halls of eternal glory where the brave live on forever. Bayonets clash and machine-guns roar under the night sky, brave warriors dropping like ripe apples from an apple-tree on both sides, the Prussian discipline clashing with the iron will of my ancestors defending their homeland. I can't help but start humming the tune of an ancestral war song.

Wind is blowing through my hair
Sun is bleaching my bones
Sons of gods now walk the fields
Gathering fallen souls

As the flares light up the sky and machine-guns chatter, and I sit into a trench, I am one with my ancestors that I wish to compare to. The Latvian Rifleman that Allied newspapers during the Great War lauded as worth his weight in the gold is a crucial part of our national identity, and countless tales of their courage and selflesness permeate our lore. If anyone, it is surely them who were worthy to have valkyries/sons of gods to ride down for and gather their souls. I only hope to be found worthy of the same honour.

The shout of the Sarge rudely interrupts me from my dreams of the Great War and glorious death.

"Fucking hell, J., you better un-fuck yourself! Did you ever check the motherfucking muzzle brake!? Did you even change the bloody barrel like you were supposed to?!"

I glance at the muzzle brake. Sarge is right - I haven't changed my gun's barrel yet even though I should have. Instructions require a barrel swap after ever 200 rounds, at least in theory - of course, as Sarge has explained, in combat conditions it might as well be "until the fucking barrel glows". As for the muzzle brake, the thread on the barrel is partly busted, so the brake can only be screwed on so tightly. I promptly explain things to Sarge.

"Alright. But if that muzzle brake flies off, I don't care if you have to dig up the whole fucking range to find it afterwards!" Sarge says. I'm content with that, because I'm 99% certain that the muzzle brake won't suddenly fly off like compensators sometimes do.

"By the way, how many of those push-ups did you do?" Sarge inquires. I respond that I did them all as commanded and have a partner alongside to vouch for my words - indeed, I did my 20 before every exercise, and specifically instructed my partner to witness me in the act to testify on my behalf, should Sarge ever ask me about it. Sarge says nothing, but seems pleased, and that is a good thing. Not so much because I don't want him off my back than because my esteem in his eyes has just increased considerably. Sarge appreciates men who do not require additonal supervision to carry out their orders, and I respect him too much to try and cheat even though I easily could have. Perhaps he intended it as a sort of test for me, to see how I will respond, and from his looks, it seems I have passed at least for now.

The night exercise is finally over, and we are allowed to our tents for some sleep.

"Hey, Fascist, want a drink?" a hushed voice offers me. It's Monkey.

Monkey is our battalion's fuck-up. He's the guy who manages to fuck up pretty much everything he is assigned to, and is pretty... well, unbalanced. It's a wonder how the shrinks of the medical commission even passed him. Among other things, he seems to have an obsession for offering drinks at inappropriate times, not because he has an alcohol problem, but rather for the sake of doing something forbidden. Really, I sometimes think National Guard must be desperate for able-bodied recruits to allow someone like him in the ranks.

I promptly explain Monkey that I don't make a habit of drinking on duty, because I have enough holidays to get wasted on anyway. Seems like such offers of his are more of his idea of a joke than genuinely serious ones anyway. In any case, he relents, and I go to sleep.

---

Next day has equally nasty weather. I contend myself with thoughts that my ancestors fought battles in a swamp in -40 degrees Celsius and prevailed, so no measly rain should concern me in the least.

Z. has to be at work today, so I'm assigned a new partner whom I'm supposed to talk through the basics as we load up. I like explaining things to rooks and anyone else who asks. Perhaps that's why I aspire to become an instructor some day - I like the feeling when some FNG asks me for advice, and I'm competent enough to give him one. The two most common advices I find myself giving is showing people how to dismantle and assemble the M/45 SMG, which is exclusive to my Escort/Patrol company, and how to dismantle the lock mechanism of Ak4 battle rifle, Swedish mod of H&K G3 rifle, that is our standard-issue weapon - twisting that greasy block can be tricky unless you use the rifle's sling for better grip. In any case, I hope to get certified one day to lead exercises myself and show the ropes to all the noobs who enlist.

One of the things that I notice about my new partner is that he has the same last name as Blondie, our captain, but keep the questions to myself for now.

Today's primary exercise is firing at moving targets with position change. You are supposed to whack one group of targets, change your position and whack another one. Then a grenadier will deploy smoke screen by Carl Gustav, and you are supposed to shift back to your original position while your loader covers you with rifle fire.

It's a pretty stressful exercise. I take my go as a loader first, feeding the belt into the gun as my partner fires, reloading as needed. I drop the empty ammo box with the empty belts in it, quickly gathering it up on the move as Sarge berates me in the distance. I know he is right - there would be no excuse for such a screw-up in real war. We change positions, my partner delivers his payload, and I cover him. Beforehand, I have asked Blondie for permission to try out full-auto on the Ak4, a luxury normally forbidden to conserve ammo. Though it feels alright, I understand why it is normally forbidden - the recoil is high enough to make most rounds in the burst fly wide, making the full-auto mode only useful in the closest of ranges.

We change positions, and now it's my turn. I pepper my targets with a well-aimed burst, my loader unfailing in his task. We change positions, and I deliver another fatal burst to targets that fall down as they are hit. Then the Carl Gustav thunders, popping up smoke, and I run back to our original position, holding my MG barrel facing backwards as instructed for safety purposes.

I remember Sarge telling a tale of a true machine-gunner - a lad who, being totally drunk, would take a piss, close the lid of the toilet and tap twice on it as one is supposed to do with an MG. While amusing, this helps to remeber what a loader must always do when loading a new belt. My partner has certainly heeded this semi-legendary tale, as have I.

---

Our last exercise is seemingly-impossible one - the gunner shoots blindfolded while the loader corrects his aim.

"Maybe we shoud cheat," I mention to my partner, unfortunately within earshot of Sarge.

"Fuck it, you can cheat if you want," he says, "Just know I'm doing all this for you, not for goddamn personal amusement!"

I respect the Sarge too much to cheat, and I also trust him not to give us any task that he couldn't do himself, so I make sure I am blindfolded properly, unable to see anything.

I pull a long burst first so that several tracers pass through my gun, letting my partner see where exactly am I hitting. One in three rounds is supposed to be a tracer. He corrects me accordingly, and to my surprise, I do manage to hit my target according to corrections. Even Sarge comments positively on my blind marksmanship. Then we switch roles, and shooting blindfolded turns out to be not such a difficult exercise after all with proper correction.

As we are about to complete the exercise, Blondie approaches me.

"Still have any belts left, J.?" she asks, "I want to try that blindfold one."

I look at Sarge.

"Go ahead, we still have a few belts to spare," he says. I'd much rather allow Blondie to shoot it out than unload it back in the battalion. My fingers are already raw from two days of loading up non-disintegrating MG belts, and I know unloading them can similarly be a pain.

Blondie shoots, and I correct her fire, deliberately striving to observe all the protocol a loader is supposed to observe, as we were all instructed in these two days. Sarge is pleased, and Blondie is happy - as an officer, she only gets to shoot a piece a few times a year, the rest of her work being mostly a desk job, so I figure she appreciates the chance at least as much as I do.

I must admit, I enjoy seeing the smile on that woman's face a little bit more than would be professionally appropriate.

---

Afterwards, it's the usual post-exercise stuff of cleaning guns and handing them over in the battalion armory. Later I take a bus to downtown Riga - I need to make it to the bus or train to my town in time. My partner happens to ride with me.

"Do you happen to be related to Blondie?" I ask, noting their identical last names.

"Sure. She's my sister," he says.

"How many of you are there?" I ask with surprise.

"Five," he says. It's a reputable number. Blondie and her family come from Latgale, the "hillbilly" region of Latvia, where large families are still nothing unheard of. As she has said, the military was the only viable option of employment for her and her brothers, bringing "military family" a whole new definition. My own ancestors came from this region, my great-grandmother being awarded the medal of a mother-heroine for raising 10 children, a reputable tradition that is sadly discontinued in this age.

---

So here I am, awaiting for a new MG course to raise my qualification. From what I've heard, next levels of the course include shooting pop-up targets from a moving vehicle, the instructor behind you bellowing tips in your ear as you do, and profanities when you miss. From what I know of Sarge and his rich vocabulary, that could be a most enlightening experience.

As I walk home from the bus in my town at late night, I whistle an old ancestral war-song to myself:

A tit would sing her song
Atop the stable's roof
Oh, sister, hearken
The message tit has brought
The tit has brought a message
Thy brother must go to war

Sing, sister, while you dress me
Mourn, sister, while you bid farewell
Cry naught, my sister
Wait for me to come back home
If I never come, wait for my steed
If three years pass, in fourth he'll come

Ask him, where his rider died
Where men like felled oaks now lie
Wind is blowing through my hair
Sun is bleaching my bones
Sons of gods now walk the fields
Gathering fallen souls

A glorious song befit to my illustrious ancestors. I only hope I will be found worthy of their example in my current, rather humble trade.



P.S.  Here's a link to the original song that I (rather poorly) attempted to translate.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yx7NpqQ04bU


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## Pandora (Aug 31, 2014)

Beautiful tribute, amazing word choices and images  . . .  

_"I am for a moment thrown 100 years back, in the dark days of the Great War where my ancestors fought. I am one with them, lying in the trenches as German troops charge towards me, the thunder of artillery shaking the ground and Maxim guns scything the enemy down like grass. Valiant Latvian men in the trenches fix bayonets, preparing to go over the top into glorious battle for their fatherland, then a part of the Russian Empire. The shrill tune of officers' whistles pierces the air and the field is overwhelmed by a thunderous battle-cry as my ancestors go over the top, charging into glorious battle, shells howling and shrapnel bursting around them. Young men fall like cherry petals in a spring breeze, and sons of gods ride down from the sky, gathering the souls of the fallen and taking them by hand to the halls of eternal glory where the brave live on forever. Bayonets clash and machine-guns roar under the night sky, brave warriors dropping like ripe apples from an apple-tree on both sides, the Prussian discipline clashing with the iron will of my ancestors defending their homeland. I can't help but start humming the tune of an ancestral war song."
_
When I put myself into War it doesn't feel worth it, your words here challenge that. Moving piece, I see a very proud true heart wrote this. Well written, it ws good to learn more about you, your life CyberWar. 

I thought again of my husband's father, Cap, he was the gunner on a plane shot down in WWII, a POW a couple years. He lied about his age as many did going to war when he was sixteen. He had no idea what he was getting into. The motivations innocent but proud too. Valiantly fighting for what he believed was right. Listening to the old man's stories decades later, I thought how my husband would never had been born if he had come home in a box, thinking my children wouldn't have either, the numbers of loss go limitless. That is the part of War that is overwhelming, souls never born.

Thank you for sharing, that song is beautiful, I'm keeping it bookmarked to enjoy time and again, thank you.


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## CyberWar (Sep 1, 2014)

Ironically, no people are greater pacifists than soldiers. Those are, after all, their bodies that will litter the battlefield should a war break out, and those will be their mothers and wives who will receive black-sigiled letters of condolences from the government, and no sane man wants that, and I wouldn't want anyone who actually does fighting by my side and endangering his comrades with misguided suicidal glory-hounding. I am no exception - war is the last thing I'd want to experience in my life, but I also admire and revere those who had the guts to do their duty, I uphold them as examples, and hope to do mine equally well should I ever be called upon.

Being a soldier is really all about hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. None of us wants to die that lauded glorious death, we all hope to live long and happy lives, but at the same time we also prepare for the opposite, so that we can do our duty unfettered by fear and go down fighting like all proper men must if nee be. Every man dies eventually - some in bed of old age or illness, some in a violent accident, and some in the field of battle, serving their fatherland. Being prepared for that eventuality and yet hoping to lead a normal life no different from any other person is what differs a soldier from a civilian, a lot of whom unfortunately seem to think they are going to live forever and make no preparations for any sudden twists for the worse.

Being a soldier is not about fighting wars, but rather about keeping the peace. Preparing for war and competing with would-be enemies to be better prepared and thus more capable of visiting destruction upon the enemy is what really keeps the peace. This constant preparedness to kill and die even though neither us nor them want to do either is the deterrent that keeps the peace. It is only when this deterrent fails that war breaks out - either because one side was too ill-prepared to deter the foe, or because both sides severely overestimated their preparedness.

One really great thing about military service in peacetime is that it teaches you to appreciate all the little luxuries of civilian life in peacetime that most people take for granted. You'll be surprised just how much can simple things like a hot meal or a shower can lighten the mood if you've spent the last three days or more soaked wet to the bone in a cold rainy weather, wading across swamps, sleeping under open sky and eating only MREs that most civilians wouldn't feed their dog with, your hands being full of blisters from digging foxholes, you having had an hour or two of proper sleep at best, and having spent much of the time in between doing all the said dying of boredom as you wait for the next assignment, there being no TV, internet, radio or even a shallow and vain tabloid magazine to read. A few times like that, and you don't even need shells bursting around you and bullets whizzing way too close to your head for comfort to understand how great a thing peace actually is. And yet this understanding is what makes you want to train even harder, prepare even better to ensure that this peace lasts, or returns quickly if it doesn't, so that your compatriots, your friends and family, don't have to sacrifice the comfort and endure the hardships that you willingly undertake now.


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## Pandora (Sep 1, 2014)

Wonderful response CyberWar. Peacekeepers our heroes, I am keen to that. Yesterday in the old cemetery a family plot of soldiers, all fallen in different wars over the couple centuries. Died in battle on the tombstones, a moment of respect and sorrow. We can wish for no wars but I guess we know better.


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