In the spring of 1970, I went on a driven boar hunt in Bulgaria as a member of a German hunting party. I was the only American in the group. We flew into Sofia and breezed through customs shepherded by our Bulgarian host.
There was no inspection of weapons, no inquiry about licenses, no difficulty whatsoever. We were all herded into the airport bar, and the host asked what we would like to drink, beer or cognac. I am not much of a beer drinker, so I asked for cognac. To my surprise, I was handed a tumbler filled to the brim. We were then herded out onto the tarmac, where we were to board our plane for the flight to the hunting site. I saw why we had been fortified with liquor.
The plane was an ancient tail-dragger, a sort of Russian version of the DC-3. We boarded the plane, carrying guns and ammunition and luggage and seated ourselves and then were greeted by the smiling pilot, who marched past us up the slanting passageway to the cockpit, where he closed the door and locked himself in.
We flew to the hunting site near the Black Sea uneventfully and were escorted to the hunting accommodations, which consisted of a group of cabins obviously used by sea-side vacationers. The next morning we were taken by bus to the hunting site, accompanied by the beaters who were to conduct the drive, who made themselves noticeable on the bus by an overwhelming scent of garlic.
I was carrying my brand new ZKK 602 BRNO in .375 H&H, and was concerned about the reverse safety on it. I had been practicing on the running boar range at my local club in Germany, and thought I would be able to handle a shot, but I was concerned about remembering how to take the safety off.
I finally decided to go ahead and take the safety off beforehand, so as not to be confused when something appeared. Sure enough, when two Ueberlaeufer (yearlings) ran across my field of view, I threw the rifle to my shoulder and put the safety back on in the process. That was my only chance at Schwarzwild (wild boar) for the whole hunt.
I did make a successful running shot on a fox, which I gave to the beaters. They were overjoyed, since the government paid a bounty on foxes, which they could turn into beer.
At the end of the second day, my closest neighbor, an elderly Swiss gentleman, wounded a pig, and I offered to follow it up for him. I walked about fifty yards into the undergrowth, when it jumped up in front of me, and I executed the equivalent of a low house seven skeet shot, which put it down for the count.
One of the other hunters, a butcher by trade, came over and rolled up his sleeves. He proceeded to field dress the hog without getting so much as a drop of blood on his person. Quite impressive.
On the final day, we reversed the procedure with the Russian DC-3 and the Sofia airport, and soon found ourselves back in Germany. Never during the entire trip was my rifle examined or I questioned about a license or permit. As a Devisenbringer (hard currency carrier), I was exempt from the normal rules.
