The job of a comedian is to say the things that need to be said, that no one else is saying, and I’m going to do that right now:
The M1 Garand was the stupidest gun used in WWII
It is. I’m saying it. This needs to be said. It’s a fucking stupid idiot gun designed by dickheads.
I know what you’re thinking, ‘there were a lot of interesting gun designs in WWII; side and top loaded clips, barrel magazines, the first assault rifle was designed at the time. There was a lot of trial and error. What makes the M1 Garand so bad?’
I’ll tell you why: The M1 Garand was fed on an 8 round internal clip that, dig this, couldn’t be topped up between clips. Once you put your 8 rounds in, you had to shoot all 8 rounds before you could reload. But that’s not all…
Once you shot your last round, the M1 Garand would eject the empty bullet clip with a loud metallic Ping! Your last shot of the rifle is the loudest and most distinct of all.
The gun lets everyone know you’re holding an empty rifle
So you have a gun that only takes 8 rounds, can’t be reloaded until it’s empty, and makes a massive fucking noise once it’s empty. Stupid gun, stupid design.
The M1 Garand is even more stupid when you consider the American army also had the M1A1 carbine. A rifle that used the same calibre, was also semi-automatic, and had a similar effective range.
The M1A1 carbine also used a magazine fed system, so you could reload it between shots, and it was common for it to hold way more than 8 rounds.
Oh man, just thinking about it makes me so fucking angry. I can barely type, I’m shaking so much.
Imagine being outside Cherbourg, an M1 Garand assigned to you, and you’re like ‘Sarge, why I gotta use this fucking gun? Treacle’s got a carbine, why can’t I have one?.’
‘Shut the fuck up, Slothrop. You’re in the fire squad. Just suppress those damn Nazis so Yossarian’s assault team can flank them.’
You shoot at the Germans, they return fire. You hide behind a brick fence, there’s a break in their fire, you’ve got to lay down cover for Yossarian.
You take a couple of pot shots at the Germans behind a burnt out Renault. Bang, bang, Ping! Fuck, you thought you were counting properly.
The Germans all train their fire on you, they know you can’t fire back right now.
You think you’re safe behind the brick fence, but a stray bullet hits a metal brace on the building over, ricochets off and grazes you in the neck.
It doesn’t feel deep, but you’re bleeding, a lot.
And who comes to the rescue?
Fucking Treacle. He busts out the window of a store across the road with the butt of his fucking carbine. 15 rounds, two for each German laying down fire with the rest of the assault squad at his back.
He comes over to you, ‘Mag’s technically empty, but I’ve still got one in the chamber. Better reload, huh?’ He bends down to put pressure on your wound, with that handkerchief his girl gave him before he got deployed.
You ask him how it looks, ‘it’s fine buddy, you’re gonna be fine.’
You know what that means. The medic’s back with Sarge and the site’s too hot for triage.
Treacle’s face is being framed by the darkness swelling in from the edge of your vision.
You feel the warmth drain from you, this whole thing could have been avoided if you could reload, if it wasn’t for that Fucking Ping! And the last thing you ever think is…
‘Stupid fucking rifle’