The Smith & Wesson Model 41 has earned its place among the world’s finest .22 target pistols for good reason. And the SW22 Victory has been getting good press alongside Ruger’s Mark IV, which now joins the world of guns that can be taken down (and reassembled) by mere mortals. But what of Smith & Wesson’s forgotten 22A, which was made in their Houlton, Maine factory alongside handcuffs and other handgun parts?
The short answer: the 22A is a mixed bag, but given that new (or nearly new) examples can be found in the $200 range right now, they may be one of the best target .22LR bargains going.
The “Smith & Wesson Automatic,” as it was advertised, or the “Model of 1913” as the collectors refer to it, is a gun that by all measures should have done well. Its innovations still delight and amaze, and were it not for some bad timing, this gun could have been far more influential than the historical footnote that it has been relegated to.
The basics: the .35 S&W Auto chambering is almost identical to the .32 Automatic Colt Pistol round that would come to dominate the world of semiautomatic pocket pistols for decades. Manufacturers knew that getting the public hooked on a particular caliber of ammunition with the manufacturer’s name in it was a source of free advertising (like the ubiquitous .38 Smith & Wesson round). In the early years of Smith & Wesson when the Model 1 was the only gun sold by the little company, it was sufficient to simply purchase ammunition for the Smith & Wesson, and the earliest ammunition was known thus.
Regardless of how much money one has invested in high quality firearms, it’s difficult to not be piqued by Hi-Point Firearms. Their proposition is simple: a semiautomatic handgun at an MSRP of $219, that portends to have better quality than the usual Zamak-filled Saturday Night Specials. And since everyone is dumping their .40 S&W guns to go back to 9mm (or even to .380 ACP), it seemed like a good time to scoop up a nice used Hi-Point to see what they’re really about. A single Benajmin brought this lightly used example into my gun safe, complete with its owned logoed hard plastic case. So far, so good.
I rarely set out to buy a particular gun; my preference is to wait for a deal to pop up. Such was the case with the Colt Lightweight Commander I’m reviewing today, which most people would understandably look past. In short: the “Lightweight” designation means that the frame is made of an aluminum, which is going to absorb far less of the considerable recoil that the .45 ACP round can generate. And the “Commander” size means that there’s less barrel and less slide to absorb that recoil. And this gun is still a good bit larger than the pocket-sized polymers that dominate the compact market now, which leaves the Lightweight Commander in a strange middle-space. But one man’s odd duck is this man’s bargain, and when it was offered to me for a good bit below dealer cost (translation: “we’ve had this thing in the case for well over two years and we need to make space for more Glocks and Springfields”), I decided to give it a shot. Can’t go wrong with a pony gun, right?
The August 18, 1945 issue of The Ottawa Journal newspaper lamented that good quality fishing gear “is practically non-existent,” and that “the war, of course, caused it all. Sport fishing might be very dear to the hearts of many but it was not an essential industry and its workers left and materials for manufacture of equipment was denied it when war came.”1 Later, the article made reference to “one major company (John Inglis),” who would commence the manufacture of fishing reels designed by the Kalamazoo, Michigan-based Shakespeare Company.
Most Canadians know the Inglis name, but not for its fishing reels—and certainly not for the high quality guns it made during World War II. The venerable Canadian manufacturer is best known for its appliances, which washed Canadians’ dirty dishes and Stanfields for decades (and which continues to do so, albeit now as a brand name under Whirlpool). But what of Inglis’ time as a gun manufacturer?