Back in the early 1990s I had a hankerin' for a .458 so I bought one. Next day we took it out to test it. Only we were stupid and forgot to bring along anything to shoot at. It was OK, the guy who was driving that day had an old truck rim in the back of the truck. We went out about 100 yards to a pile of gravel and set it up. My gun, I got first shot and I selected 510 gr solids (elephant ammo). It was a nice day and my first shot made the rim jump about 10 feet in the air. It weighed maybe 50#. So we all walked over to see if I'd kilt it. Soo Nuff, it was real dead. The .458 ball it it kind of at an angle and then proceeded to punch holes as it went along. All the way through, not bothering to slow down or deflect. Kind of like the steel was soft butter or something. Very impressive for a low velocity rifle round (maybe 2000fps).
Back in my ill spent youth, I managed to shoot one of my best friends. We were at a different gravel pit and part of the scenery included an ancient power shovel. It had been used by many generations of plinkers. Most pistol rounds couldn't even penetrate the steel cab. But that day I was after bigger game. I took my trusty war surplus Mauser and using unknown ammo (all surplus 8mm was questionable) I took careful aim and shot the bucket! The core vanished after punching into the 2" thick steel where it hit. The problem was the jacket came right back at us. Caught my buddy in the forehead and looked all the world like those wood staples that are zig-zag. Stuck in his hard head, too. I'm guessing it hurt some, too. So we retreated to his dad's Nash Metropolitan to look for tools. Found some surgical pliers, like the off brand one's you found along the road. He held still and I extracted it without much trouble, only then it started bleeding. All we had to stop the bleeding was an old shop rag (complete with rust and grease.)
So he held it in place while driving up the road to the Pony Keg (a little out of the way store). We knew the proprietor pretty well because we always stopped in for some chips and a coke. He asked if we needed an ambulance, but we said no. So he offered up to do some repair work. With some ice and a much cleaner rag it bled a bunch less. So he found a few butterfly closures, put some Mertholade on it, and we were good to go. But we didn't go home, we went back to finish our day of shooting. Weekends weren't all that long back then.
The lesson we learned was not to shoot at hard targets from too close. Its good advice. From that point on we shot the shovel bucket from cover. Farther out and just peeking around a pile of gravel seemed much safer to us. Oh. And my buddy's father insisted we park his pride and joy out on the road and hike into the pit. Bob always did have a zigzag scar after that.