Figures, I can finally afford a Barrett ( okay the cheaper model) but the bullets would bankrupt me. Like Lays potato chips - No one can shoot just one.
Babble-mode on: I fired a .50 when I was fourteen, tots hooked right then and there. I lived in a small town in Indiana and this veteran moved into the area with his family. I hooked up with his son the day he went to register at our school. The secretaries called me up and asked me to show him around. After school we rode our bikes five miles to his house. Big place with a stable. I tried not to stare at his father, who was short a leg. He took us out to the barn and showed us the horses. Then he asked me if I'd ever fired a machine gun. (I had told his son I was hooked on WWII.) I said no, and he said "if you keep these stalls clean I'll let you fire mine." Then he showed me the M2. Lust, pure lust. I knew what they could do. The rest is history. He was the polar opposite of the Y-donor, who was a Kluxxer. He saved me from picking a direction and walking away from that house. I slept in his barn more than once, even in the winter. It just smelled better. And if anybody quotes this I'll blame the morphine. Cheers.
Oh and barns are Great. Spent many an hour in a uncles barn playing in the hay and climbing the ladder to the small landing at the ceiling. Won't say what type of playing went on.
Fine Chrysler puff piece on construction of the Detroit Tank Arsenal. Good stuff on early M3 Medium production/demonstration: