Tuesday, September 29, 2015


As promised here I have more about M1 Garands. I recently picked one up and finally have it fixed up the way I want it. It was made in 1943 and went through WWII, Europe or Pacific I don’t know. It was lend-leased to the Danish military some years ago. The CMP brought many back when the Danes turned them in and I bought mine through them. It is in good shape mechanically, a new barrel, and the Danish replaced any worn parts with milspec parts supplied by Beretta. Oh, yes, Beretta is the oldest firearms maker in the world and they make many fine weapons besides the anemic M9 service pistol. So I have an arsenal rebuilt rifle that is in excellent condition.

The wood stock was another story. After so many years and certainly seeing some hard combat the stock was pretty rough. The Danes replaced the walnut butt stock with one of birch. It fit good but birch is not a pretty wood. So I replaced the upper and lower hand guards and found a decent butt stock. All the wood was stripped and several coats of boiled linseed oil were applied.


(That was the way the military did their stocks, with the linseed oil). I put it all together last week and took it to the range. She shoots sweet.

There is a certain mystique to an M1. General Patton said of it: “The M1 is the greatest battle implement ever devised”. It is the weapon primarily associated with WWII and the winning thereof. In the Korean conflict the M1 was the only weapon reliable under such extreme cold conditions. Honor guards still use them for parades and drill teams. You have seen my other rifles and while they are fine weapons, shoot good, function well, so forth, they do not come close to being warm, they do not have any persona.

My M1 may not be the rifle I go to if the SHTF but it is the favorite of all my weapons. It is the one I connect with. She is the one closest to my heart.

1 comment:

Lance de Boyle said...

Yes, unlike any other weapon I've had, the M1 joins you.

And hits like a jack hammer. At 200 yards, the bullet enters an empty propane tank, and, stripped of cooper---a red hot lump of lead---exits, leaving a wound the size of a blown out tennis ball. Sometimes it feels like it aims itself.

"Oh, you want it there, Lance? You got it!"