Weapon of Choice
By: Ranger

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