I hope you'll indulge this very long post, but it seems appropriate to add it to this thread:
The veteran
By “Charles Osborne”
I couldn’t tell you my parents’ names, but I do know that I was born in Birmingham, England. Skilled and loving hands delivered me into this world, and my ancestry was, if not so subtle and refined as my cousins from London, or distinctive and classy like my Scottish kin, of solid, honest, workmanlike stock.
It had been a long time since anyone had paid me much attention though – longer than I care to remember – longer still since I’d been offered gainful employment or a full check up. They had been dark times of neglect and idleness. I had dim memories of time spent afield – quarry I’d taken, quarry I’d missed. Some days I’d stood still much of the day and shot much from the one spot; others I’d been walked far and wide, and shot little, but I loved being out either way. The cool, green hills, the moist air … too long ago.
* * *
One day curious things began to happen.
My old guardian took me out of that dark, claustrophobic place I’d spent too long in, and laid me under bright lights. He spoke – I didn’t know to whom at the time – and took directions from someone who obviously knew something of our kind. Under direction my old guardian rang my barrels, and I sang like a bell – for him, or for the one giving direction? I was turned over and over, each part being looked at carefully described.
I was put back in my case, and a few days later felt myself moved to a new place.
I was nervous. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t know why I was going. Frightening rumours some years back of our kind being crushed were worrying, but surely no one could do that to me?
Rough hands handled me in a cursory way, only looking at my particular birth marks. These he recorded. I spent a short time with many others – most much younger than me and mostly immigrants who spoke but broken English – Japanese, Americans, Italians, Belgians, French, Germans, Brazilians... Some mocked my long, thin, curly brown tubes, my straight wrist, and my steel-shod heel and toe. I was a little scared of some of them – they looked heavy-set, black-tubed, menacing, rough, and lacking character or refinement. But some were respectfully curious too; a young Italian especially wanted to know all about the hunting I’d done – he seemed to have had little experience of hunting, but had shot at lots of targets. I enjoyed hearing about different places and game from a middle aged American who had seen different sorts of hunting to me. I enjoyed meeting them.
But soon enough I was on my way again in a smelly, noisy, vibrating vehicle. Days, it took…
Then I found myself in a new place. I was disoriented, but reassured that the two there seemed pleased to see me. One of them cased me again, and gently placed me into his vehicle for what turned out to be a short ride.
Out I came again. I was beginning to tire of all the new names, faces and places, and all the handling, but not venturing out, let alone hunting. But this time was different. I was pulled apart and cleaned; not carelessly with a dirty, oily rag, but carefully, with brushes, cloth, oil, and a strange – but pleasant – smelling oily liquid which seemed to miraculously dissolve dirt. I hadn’t felt this clean in a long time.
I was then put in a rack with some others, the large, heavy door closed, and I was allowed to rest in a cool, dark, airy room. The others there were excited to have a new neighbour and they bombarded me with questions. A tall, dark, stern, military type – one of her Brittanic Majesty’s finest (rumoured to have seen service with the police during the Kelly outbreak)! – brought them quickly to order: “One at a time!”. We talked long into the night. A few were quite young, but most of my new neighbours were old too, some even older than me! They assured me that they’d all been shooting with my new keeper, and he’d give me a go soon enough. They told me that he was no expert, but that he meant no ill, and would do his best to look after me. Some of them showed me scars they’d picked up with him, but they seemed to enjoy getting them!
* * *
I felt exposed and vulnerable – and fearful – when I saw this new guardian of mine take up screwdrivers the next day. No one had done this to me for many a year, and one or two hadn’t taken the care to fit them properly. I needn’t have worried though; they were flat, and he carefully picked the grime away to make sure they would fit deeply and surely. A lead plug was driven into one of my tubes and that tube massaged back into approximate roundness; the other was hammered down level with a lead bar. I was a bit sore, but felt in better shape than I had done since the day that charge had struck a loose wad.
Light cartridges slid home into my chambers. I’d nearly forgotten how good that felt! Then my guardian snapped me shut, shouldered me and pressed my triggers; no bang – only snap caps, but he did it many times, and seemed to enjoy it. I certainly enjoyed the movement, but felt a little frustrated that it was not quite the real thing. I was optimistic though that maybe soon I would feel the grass, the wind, and the mist again.
* * *
Another short journey. I wondered what would happen next.
I could feel a brisk breeze and bright sunlight as I was brought out again.
Two cartridges slipped in. They had a strange texture and smell, not the waxed paper I remembered, but they were still reassuringly heavy with lead, and had the same type of crimp – rolled over a card top-wad.
I looked at the country side and was shocked: these were not my cool green hills; the air was dry, the ground flat and stonier; the grass golden, the few trees were sparse, open, sprawling and grand – a strange place indeed…
I was nervous. This is not what I’d remembered and looked forward to, and as we walked through it I found it alien.
But then I felt myself shouldered and saw something I’d not seen for many a year. A rabbit! – in full stride, quartering away. I quite forgot any nervousness and the alien landscape and remembered to concentrate, purposefully, on pushing hard and catching that rabbit. I bellowed a deep, roaring boom, and lost sight of everything through white smoke and bright flame. Real gunpowder! I kept swinging through though, as I’d missed, but still had one more chance. Boom! A tumble and a kick from the rabbit as I swung through it, then it lay still! I live for that moment, and I’d waited a long time to do it again.
My last shots, so many years before had been that new, acrid, sharp, nitro powder – too clean to be wholesome!; it jarred my joints badly and took some of the pleasure from hunting. I hadn’t thought I’d get to enjoy the real thing again!
* * *
I’ve been for a few outings now.
I’ve taken ducks, hares, rabbits. I’ve also shot at small clay discs which shatter when you hit them; I did that looking out over the sea, and there were a lot of familiar names there, and a lot of people having a lot of fun. I didn’t feel at all out of place.
I have picked up some scratches and bumps – a barbed wire fence, some dirt, but I don’t mind an honest scar from honest use. I’m certainly not getting a chance to go rusty!
Hope you liked it.
RG
