Editor-in-Camo vs. The M2

This weekend’s National Guard duty handed me a new challenge: the M2 .50 caliber machine gun. Or, as I like to call it, “the gun that grows you chest hair on contact.”

Seriously, this thing isn’t so much a weapon as it is a personality test. The second you touch it, you’re expected to sprout a beard, start driving a lifted truck, and casually refer to deer season as “harvest.” 

Clearly, the M2 was not designed with women — or anyone under 200 pounds — in mind.

The first lesson? Keep your fingers far, far away from the chamber and bolt carrier. One of my peers nearly learned this the hard way, and let me tell you, nothing says “team bonding” quite like a group of soldiers watching someone almost donate a fingertip to Uncle Sam.

Then there’s the weight. The M2 is essentially the Army’s free strength-training program. I’ve been at the gym with Barb here in town, working weights like I’m auditioning for a fitness magazine, but the M2 laughed at me. Out loud.

When it was my turn to perform a functions check, I somehow managed to wedge my left knee into the hand grips, had another poor soul hold the barrel steady, and still had to use two hands just to dry fire. Picture a toddler trying to start a lawnmower, and you’ll get the idea.

The nearby sergeants? Dying of laughter. I think one of them might’ve pulled a muscle from cackling. Without the tripod, I looked less like a soldier and more like I was trying to wrangle a misbehaving farm animal.

Did this help my reputation as tall and strong? 

Not a chance. If anything, I’ve firmly cemented myself as “the one who almost lost a battle to a stationary piece of metal.” 

And honestly, if I’m ever actually asked to fire this thing in combat, we’re in such deep trouble that my little performance will be the least of our worries.

In the end, I walked away with a sore shoulder, a bruised ego, and a story I’ll probably be teased about until retirement. 

Just another day in the adventures of your local editor-in-camo.