Write a campfire debate between three WWII soldiers, Anton, Tom and Dietrich.
Tom is a naive rookie MG42 operator and doesn't understand why the MG34 had to be replaced.
Anton is a cynical experienced MG34 operator and likes it. He's not eager to have to switch.
Dietrich is a jaded veteran MG42 operator who started on the MG34 and loves the change.
***
The crackle of the campfire is the only sound for a long moment, save for the distant, rhythmic thud of artillery miles away. Tom, shivering despite the heat of the flames, is meticulously running a rag over the feed tray of a brand-new, stamped-metal machine gun.
Anton watches him from across the fire, a tin cup of chicory coffee cupped in his calloused hands. His own weapon, an MG34 with its beautifully machined, ventilated barrel jacket, rests pristine against a log beside him.
Dietrich sits slightly back in the shadows, eyes closed, boots propped up, seemingly asleep.
Tom: (Squinting into the firelight) "I just don't get it, Anton. Look at this thing. It looks like it was stamped out of a toy factory. The edges are sharp enough to shave with, and the buttstock feels like a cheap piece of firewood. Why did the high command force us to switch to this '42? The MG34 you’ve got... it’s like a piece of jewelry. It’s perfect."
Anton: (Takes a slow, cynical sip) "Because, my naive young friend, Berlin ran out of patience and master craftsmen. You look at my 34 and see jewelry. Berlin looks at it and sees 150 hours of a master machinist’s life and dozens of marks down the drain. They want things they can pump out like sausages. You like that new toy, Tommy? Just wait until a single grain of Russian sand gets inside that beautiful, loose-tolerance receiver. Then tell me how much you love it."
Tom: "But it shoots so fast! The NCO said it does twelve hundred rounds a minute. Maybe fifteen hundred! That’s double what yours does."
Anton: (Snorts) "Fourteen hundred rounds of ammunition you have to carry on your back, rookie. You’ll pull that trigger, it’ll sound like tearing canvas, and three seconds later you’ll be screaming for another belt while Ivan is running across the field with a bayonet. The 34 gives you a nice, steady eight hundred rounds. You can actually aim the damn thing. It’s a soldier's weapon, not a factory worker's panic attack."
From the shadows, Dietrich’s boots drop to the dirt with a heavy thud. He opens one eye, looking at Anton with a tired, jaded smirk.
Dietrich: "A soldier's weapon? Anton, you old mule, you’re in love with a museum piece."
Anton: "It hasn't failed me yet, Dietrich."
Dietrich: "Because we haven't been overrun in a swamp yet. Tom, don't listen to him. Let me tell you about the 34. When we were outside Moscow, the grease in Anton's 'perfect jewelry' turned to glue in the freeze. We had to literally pee on the receivers just to get the bolts to move. You know what happens when you need to change a barrel on the 34 in the middle of a firefight? You have to unlatch the receiver, pivot the whole damn gun sideways, slide the hot barrel out the back, and pray your fingers don't melt off through your gloves."
Tom: (Leaning forward) "And the 42?"
Dietrich: (Points a finger at Tom's gun) "Look at the right side of your barrel shroud. See that hatch? You slap that lever open, the hot barrel pops right out the side. You slide a cold one in, slap it shut. Two seconds. You can do it blindfolded, upside down, in a muddy ditch, while artillery is blowing your hearing out. That 'cheap stamped metal' means the parts actually have room to breathe when the mud starts flying."
Anton: "Room to breathe? It shakes itself to pieces! The barrel change is the only good thing about it. The rest of it is a meat grinder for ammunition. The barrels overheat twice as fast because of that ridiculous fire rate."
Dietrich: "Which is why they give us three spare barrels, Anton. Look, I loved the 34 too, when we were parading through Poland. It’s a beautiful machine. But this isn't Poland anymore. Ivan doesn't care about craftsmanship. When a wave of three hundred men comes screaming out of the tree line, I don't want an eight-hundred-round-a-minute precision instrument. I want the 'Buzzsaw.' I want the gun that makes them dive into the dirt the second they hear it."
Tom: (Looking between the two weapons, a bit overwhelmed) "So... it's uglier, but it keeps us alive?"
Dietrich: "Precisely. It’s ugly, it’s loud, and it’s cheap. Welcome to the modern age, kid."
Anton: (Sighing, running a thumb over the polished receiver of his MG34) "Enjoy it while you can, Tom. When Berlin figures out an even cheaper way to build them, they'll probably replace that one with a weapon made of cardboard and spit. But until then... just make sure you carry extra barrels. Because when Dietrich burns through his ammunition in thirty seconds, you're the one who's going to have to cover him."
Dietrich: (Pulling his cap back over his eyes with a grin) "He's not wrong about that. Get some sleep, rookie. Tomorrow you get to carry the heavy tripod."
