Ammunition is Not a Matter of Life and Death

by Hap Rocketto

There is an old saying among smallbore shooters that there are two things that are not long for this world, dogs who chase cars and smallbore shooters who can’t get hold of a good lot of ammunition. Such is not the case for the highpower shooter. The fodder that is fed into the chamber of the rifle is the main difference between smallbore and centerfire, a situation that might be best illustrated by having both head to Camp Perry by air and along the way have their shooting kit disappear, without a trace, into the friendly skies, a not unlikely occurrence.

Full of disappointment, but with Commercial Row and unlimited funds at their disposal, each can re-equip themselves with the best of everything from the ground up, shooting mat to rifle to shooting hat. More importantly the high power shooter can buy a reloading press, dies, scale, and components to manufacture a cartridge that will shoot just as good as the ammunition that went missing. Right out of the reloading manual he can pick a number of loads that have been tried and proved true. The old standby .308/7.62mm load of a 168 grain hollow point boat tailed bullet ahead of 41.5 grains of IMR 4895 powder comes immediately to mind.

The smallbore rifleman, on the other hand, can buy the finest, most expensive, rimfire ammunition on the shelf and not be sure of its performance. Such is the fickle nature of the ammunition/barrel relationship for the smallbore community. Smallbore rifles are sensitive to ammunition. One man’s knot lot is barely fit to pot rats at the dump to another. It is not uncommon to hear that some prone shooters budget as much as $1,000 per year for just the test lots that they use in their nearly Obsessive Compulsive Disorder ammunition testing methodology. To a rimfire rifleman ammunition is not a matter of life or death, it is far more important: as illustrated by this little anecdote.

A prone smallbore shooter of independent means and questionable character had led a hedonistic life composed mainly of drinking, gambling, smoking, chasing women, and shooting, not necessarily in that order. At long last his dissolute ways caught up with him and in his last conscious moments he wondered what awaited him in the hereafter, not a pleasant thought when he considered his misspent days.

When he at last arrived at his final destination he was quite surprised to find that his particular corner of eternity contained a billiard table flat, well manicured and lush, greensward of a rifle range. The skies were blue, the breezes gentle, and the firing line covered. There was a match everyday, no entry fees, and a rich prize schedule. He found ample parking behind his assigned firing point next to the club house with its five star restaurant. Shops maintained by several well respected shooting supply houses occupied a street behind the statistical office. Just outside of the gate of the range was a well landscaped shooters’ sub division of very fine homes each with pool, patio, and a two car garage occupied by a sports car and a SUV suitable for the paraphernalia required of the shooting sports.

He took all of this in with a smug satisfaction of entitlement secure in the belief that he had beaten the odds and arrived in Heaven. After a gourmet meal in the club house dining room he sauntered into the first shop, cognac snifter in one hand and a hand rolled Cuban cigar with an inch of ash in the other. He was delighted, as would any parsimonious belly shooter be, to see a posted sign which read, “Help Yourself! All Equipment is Free!”

“I guess my licentious life style managed to slip under the radar” he thought to himself with undue pleasure. He then went about selecting a fine European target rifle with sights and a scope, a new mat, was measured for a shooting coat and custom ear plugs, grabbed an equipment bag and filled it with a sling, glove, hat, shooting sweater, windmill, loading block, scope and stand, timer, some small hand tools, and a few other items of interest.

With his swag in hand he made his way out to the firing line. Spreading out his new mat, he set up the scope, arranged the loading block and timer, slipped on his new sweater, donned his shooting coat, adjusted the sling, snapped it to the fore end block, squiggled into position and dry fired a few shots at the target hung down range. Satisfied with everything he lifted the top of the loading block. His hand recoiled from picking up a round when he noticed an unknown headstamp. Cautiously plucking the cartridge from the block to examine it he found, much to his disgust, that it was a high velocity 22 caliber Long with a 36 grain hollow point copper washed bullet.

With an exasperated sigh, things had been so perfect up to this moment; he undid his gear and got up to head back to the club house for some selected lots of his favorite ammunition. Turning away from the firing line he noticed, for the first time, a smiling man dressed all in red leaning on a pitchfork by the range tower

“Don’t mind me,” called over the man in red, his grin growing both wicked and wider, “And don’t bother going back for different ammunition, all we have is what is in your loading block. We get it in bulk and it is always the same lot. I guess that is the hell of it.”

For the smallbore shooter success is often in the minute details of ammunition selection and we all know that the Devil is in the details. As the man in red said, “That is the Hell of it.”