Fifteen years ago it was quite common for a policeman not to fire a shot out of his service revolver from one year to the next. Side arms were certainly worn everywhere, but practice ammo was not provided and training was unheard of.
Our pistol club in those days was fairly active, and while we had no police officers as members, being a small town many were friends of members. Someone had the bright idea of holding a regular competition between the police and our club to help them out a little. We offered to supply reloaded 38 Spl cartridges at cost price and targets for free. Not surprisingly they were pretty enthusiastic.
Since they had little training in handling their pistols the worst thing we could have done was shoot man on man or put their team score against ours. Not only would they never come back, but public confidence in our police force would plummet. So we split the groups evenly, making teams of half police and half pistol club members. Everyone was happy, the day was fiercely competitive and the local newspaper gave us great press.
So far so good.
Only one minor incident marred the day's proceedings. One small but memorable incident.
Our club range was situated in an old quarry, not far from the middle of town, surrounded by bushland. The access road was no more than a dirt track that varied from rough to impassable, depending on the rainfall. It started over an old wooden bridge, through a rusty gate and meandered up through a gently sloping paddock that was often used to graze livestock (the odd cow, donkey or horse), then up through some light scrub to the range buildings, about 500 yards in all.
On the day of the shoot the last to leave were the sergeant and a couple of constables in a squad car. I suppose they must have still been in high spirits as they crept down the drive in the gathering dusk. Maybe even a little playful as they noticed a lone horse standing in the middle of the road facing the bridge. Whatever possessed them to silently inch their way down the track, suppressing maniacal laughter, as they managed to draw right up to the rear end of this poor unsuspecting animal?
WAARP! went the siren, and yes, the horse obliged with a satisfyingly violent leap with fright, it must have made eight feet straight up. Or that's what the squad car bonnet looked like - something that had been crushed under a horse's bum from a height of at least eight feet.
Later that night we met up at the Station Social Club for a few drinks. Several perplexed policemen were not joining in at the bar, preferring to sit in a corner trying to decide on the wording of their accident report...