Brian Dale
Member
{The author of the following recollection died two years ago this week. He taught quite a few people how and why to shoot, and he taught a lot of other things, as well. I believe that he wrote this piece some time after he retired from the U.S. Immigration & Naturalization Service in 1987. I have removed the last name of his partner, but have left his instructor's name untouched. Mods, only revolvers appear in the essay I've posted, but it's about an officer's proficiency with the issue weapon; please move the thread if I'm incorrect about this. -- Happy Bob}
Bob Dale and the Colt Border Patrol model {His title: MEMORIES}
In May, 1955, when I entered on duty with the Border Patrol at El Paso, Texas, I was issued a pistol with which I was expected to become proficient. Even with my limited experience with handguns, I considered the massive frame and long grip of the Colt revolver to be better suited for shoeing horses or cracking hickory nuts than for my personal defense. Some of the new arrivals were issued the light frame, heavy barrel, Colt Border Patrol model which was a real honey when compared with the Colt New Service.
One day, well into the eight weeks' training, I was on the practice range and was firing a fairly decent group on the bullseye target. The only problem was that the group was about 5 to 6 inches outside the bullseye, at four o'clock. Bill Joyner, one of the instructors that day, walked up behind me as I was finishing my string of fire. He examined the sights of my pistol, loaded three rounds, and placed three shots on the X with the holes intersecting each other.
During the next pause in shooting, as everybody was patching their targets, Bill walked to mine and stuck a black patch at ten o'clock, about 5 to 6 inches outside the bullseye. He told me to use it as an aiming point and see what happened. When we commenced firing, I aimed at the patch and drilled it dead center. Bill gave me a look of complete disgust and walked on down the firing line.
I did manage to qualify with a pistol and went from the Border Patrol school to Oceanside, Calif. where traffic check was conducted on Highway 101 with equipment carried in the trunk of the patrol car. Murray _____ and I were pipe smokers. I relied on a pocketful of matches for fire, while Murray had a fancy, high-tech pipe lighter. It was a lovely thing: tubular in shape, about seven inches long, three-quarters of an inch in diameter and chrome plated. It was Murray's pride and joy.
Murray and I were checking traffic at San Mateo Flats, which was located about a mile south of San Clemente. It must have been at the end of a midnight shift, because traffic was extremely light even though it was daylight. I was seated in the patrol car; Murray was wandering around and manning the stop sign whenever a vehicle appeared. He was upset because his pipe lighter was letting him down, and despite his best efforts it had not worked right for several hours.
He was standing by the stop sign, muttering at his pipe lighter, when I told him to throw that sucker over against the bank and let me take a shot at it. He obligingly threw it onto the side of a large berm of earth that the highway department had deposited beyond the shoulder of the highway. Previous to that time, I had been fortunate to inherit one of the neat, heavy-barreled Colt Border Patrol model pistols from a PI {another Patrol Inspector} who had transferred into another activity.
When I cranked off a round at the lighter, the lighter flew several feet in the air, in a tall arc toward the top of the berm. Murray caught the lighter before it touched down at the top of the slope, while at the same time hurling imprecations at me, questioning my ancestry, and making bitter, snide remarks about my not being able to hit a man-sized silhouette target at twenty-five yards. Even though his hurtful, derogatory remarks were mostly true, what Murray did not know was that when it came to tin cans, beer bottles, and chrome-plated lighters I could compete with the best.
Bob Dale and the Colt Border Patrol model {His title: MEMORIES}
In May, 1955, when I entered on duty with the Border Patrol at El Paso, Texas, I was issued a pistol with which I was expected to become proficient. Even with my limited experience with handguns, I considered the massive frame and long grip of the Colt revolver to be better suited for shoeing horses or cracking hickory nuts than for my personal defense. Some of the new arrivals were issued the light frame, heavy barrel, Colt Border Patrol model which was a real honey when compared with the Colt New Service.
One day, well into the eight weeks' training, I was on the practice range and was firing a fairly decent group on the bullseye target. The only problem was that the group was about 5 to 6 inches outside the bullseye, at four o'clock. Bill Joyner, one of the instructors that day, walked up behind me as I was finishing my string of fire. He examined the sights of my pistol, loaded three rounds, and placed three shots on the X with the holes intersecting each other.
During the next pause in shooting, as everybody was patching their targets, Bill walked to mine and stuck a black patch at ten o'clock, about 5 to 6 inches outside the bullseye. He told me to use it as an aiming point and see what happened. When we commenced firing, I aimed at the patch and drilled it dead center. Bill gave me a look of complete disgust and walked on down the firing line.
I did manage to qualify with a pistol and went from the Border Patrol school to Oceanside, Calif. where traffic check was conducted on Highway 101 with equipment carried in the trunk of the patrol car. Murray _____ and I were pipe smokers. I relied on a pocketful of matches for fire, while Murray had a fancy, high-tech pipe lighter. It was a lovely thing: tubular in shape, about seven inches long, three-quarters of an inch in diameter and chrome plated. It was Murray's pride and joy.
Murray and I were checking traffic at San Mateo Flats, which was located about a mile south of San Clemente. It must have been at the end of a midnight shift, because traffic was extremely light even though it was daylight. I was seated in the patrol car; Murray was wandering around and manning the stop sign whenever a vehicle appeared. He was upset because his pipe lighter was letting him down, and despite his best efforts it had not worked right for several hours.
He was standing by the stop sign, muttering at his pipe lighter, when I told him to throw that sucker over against the bank and let me take a shot at it. He obligingly threw it onto the side of a large berm of earth that the highway department had deposited beyond the shoulder of the highway. Previous to that time, I had been fortunate to inherit one of the neat, heavy-barreled Colt Border Patrol model pistols from a PI {another Patrol Inspector} who had transferred into another activity.
When I cranked off a round at the lighter, the lighter flew several feet in the air, in a tall arc toward the top of the berm. Murray caught the lighter before it touched down at the top of the slope, while at the same time hurling imprecations at me, questioning my ancestry, and making bitter, snide remarks about my not being able to hit a man-sized silhouette target at twenty-five yards. Even though his hurtful, derogatory remarks were mostly true, what Murray did not know was that when it came to tin cans, beer bottles, and chrome-plated lighters I could compete with the best.
