KevinB said:
More and more nations (Denmark, Germany) are going to a 7.62mm SAW/LMG
Good show on the Bren!
http://www.canadiansoldiers.com/weapons/lightweapons/brengun.htm
Farley Mowat, a platoon commander in the Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment, wrote about the first time he used a Bren Gun in action in Sicily in his book And No Birds Sang. His company had been ordered to withdraw:
Alex (the company commander) left us Nine Platoon's three Brens to free their crews from the weight so they could help with the wounded. Six light machine guns gave me a lot of fire power...or would have done except that we only had one or two magazines remaining for each gun.
Wriggling forward to the edge of the knoll, I passed the word to shoot at anything that moved - but to make every bullet count. Behind me I could hear stones rattling as Eight and Nine platoons broke cover and began their rush up the steep slopes. Instantly the metallic hail from an MG-42 swept over our heads in vicious pursuit of our retreating comrades.
I had my binoculars to my eyes at that moment and by the sheerest fluke glimpsed a flicker of flame and a filmy wisp of smoke coming from a pile of brush on the far side of the road. Mitchuk was lying next to me behind his section's Bren, and I grabbed his arm and tried to make his see what I had seen but he could not locate the target. After a moment he rolled over and pushed the butt of the gun toward me.
"You take 'em, Junior!" he said...and grinned.
The feel of the Bren filled me with the same high excitement that had been mine when, as a boy during October days in Saskatchewan, I had raised my shotgun from the concealment of a bulrush blind and steadied it on an incoming flight of greenhead mallards.
There was a steady throbbing against my shoulder as the Bren hammered out a burst. A stitching of dust spurts appeared in front of the patch of brush and walked on into it. I fired burst after burst until the gun went silent with a heavy clunk as the bolt drove home on an empty chamber. Quickly Mitchuk slapped off the empty magazine and rammed a fresh one into place.
"Give 'em another!" he yelled exultantly. "You're onto the fuckers good!"
Maybe I was. It is at least indisputable that after I had emptied the second magazine there was no further firing nor any sign of life from the brush pile. On the other hand, I never actually saw a human target, so I cannot be haunted by the memory of men lying dead or dying behind their gun. And for that I am grateful.