A month ago I stumbled across a rifle enthusiast’s experiment, where he found that a standard velocity .22 long rifle round was far more accurate, with far greater penetration, than he realized.
As a small round, the .22 has a reputation for being blown around by wind and failing to penetrate heavy clothing. He wrapped a turkey in three layers of clothing, and he managed to hit it in 25-mph winds from 250 and 300 yards away. All of the rounds penetrated the three layers of clothing and the turkey, and some penetrated the additional six layers of clothing on the other side — where the three layers were doubled up.
A few years back, some gun enthusiasts on The High Road, a gun forum, shared their thoughts on the humble .22′s stopping power. Some, of course, joked that the .22 would just make the bad guy mad, but a few suggested that the .22 was no laughing matter — and it’s hard to ignore the fact that more people are killed with .22s than any other round, even if that’s simply because it’s so popular.
The .22 is a favorite for plinking, and one shooter noted that he can easily shoot all 10 rounds from his Browning Buckmark into a pie plate in a few seconds. That’s 10 40-grain pieces of lead (0.91 ounces) traveling at 1,200 feet per second:
Many claim this is lousy stopping power, but if you launch the same weight of lead at the same velocity from a shotgun, it suddenly becomes an excellent stopper.
Another shooter brought up Hinckley’s attempt to assassinate Reagan in 1981. He shot six rounds of .22 LR. One hit a secret service agent in the belly. Another hit a cop in the neck. One hit Jim Brady in the forehead. Two missed entirely. And the last one ricocheted and hit Reagan under the arm before puncturing his lung.
Everyone hit dropped — although Reagan assumed he’d simply been slammed into the car by his own secret service agents. He thought he’d broken a rib.
Another fellow, a police officer, had a few stories. The first involved a couple guys running away from a bar fight:
The two young guys being attacked fled out the door and into the street. The attackers chased after them. One of the young men being chased had a cheap little .22 RG revolver in the pocket. While running, he fired all six shots back at his pursuers. Three of the shots missed anything.
Three did not.
Shooting victim number 1: When we got there just a few minutes later, he was laying in a fetal position, with a bullet in the lower stomach area. He was unresponsive aside from whimpering in pain. Survived after 5 hours of emergency surgery.
Shooting victim number 2 was hit in the upper area of the shoulder, was sitting on his butt leaning back against the wall of a store, moaning that it hurts, he needs an ambulance. Was in a great deal of pain, was not walking around.
Shooting victim number 3 was standing around, macho posturing, with a bullet hole in his upper bicep of one arm. Saying how getting shot don’t bother him at all. As the EMT gently took his arm and turned it to check for a exit wound, Mr. Macho yelled “OOWW, don’t move it man!” So much for getting shot not bothering him. I guess it didn’t as long as that arm didn’t move.
His second story was from his own childhood, when an angry homeless man threatened his father:
When I was a kid, dad took us to the mountains for the weekend. It was common in the 1950′s for Washington D.C. people to escape the city heat by going to the mountains. We went to the Shenandoah National park usually, and rented a cabin. This time we didn’t make it all the way. We had stopped for lunch at a picnic ground just outside of Front Royal Virginia. A few other families were there, and mom had a packed basket. As we were settling in, three men came out of the woods. Rough, dirty, and looking less than upstanding. Two of them had a large sheath knife on a belt. They came up towards our table and asked dad if he had any beer money.
At this point dad had placed himself between us and the men. Dad often carried his old Colt Woodsman when traveling, and this was no exception. He’d had it since 1937, and it was part of him. It was tucked in back of his right hip, but forward, inside the waistband.
One of the men, maybe drunker or more brazen, I’ll never know, stepped closer and started cursing dad, calling him some pretty bad names because dad was not giving them a hand out, saying how he could afford a nice new Pontiac Star Chief, so he should be able to give them a few bucks. Again, dad politely told the men to leave. It was not to be.
The more abusive one took out his large sheath knife and threatened dad. Dad took out his Colt .22 and told the man to back away and leave us be. The man with the knife again cursed dad, telling him he didn’t have the guts to use that gun, and then he took a step towards dad, and dad shot him.
The man kind of hunched up and staggered a little, partly doubled over, then cursed and came at dad again in a lunge, and dad shot him two more times. The man fully doubled over, going to his knees for a moment, then falling over on his side and going fetal. He moaned loudly for a moment, then quieted down. After a moment all movement and moaning stopped. The man with the family at the next picnic table went down the road to a pay phone to call the police. The other two men had fled at the first shot, and were nowhere to be seen.
The police investigated, and dad was found to have acted in self defense. The other family as witnesses helped, as was the fact that the dead man was a known trouble maker with a record of assaults.
And, of course, the humble .22 is famously the round of professional assassins, whether for the Mob or Israeli intelligence. In that role, the .22 — shot from a “silenced” pistol, of course — supposedly has enough energy to enter the skull, but not enough to punch its way back out, so it bounces around inside.
It’s all about shot placement:
“A .22 through a tear duct is better than a .45 in the arm.”
— Jeff Cooper