I was home on leave from the Army in the late 60s. I was the first of my circle of friends to enter the service, although, within the year all of us were in Uncle Sam's employ. But at that moment I was the "Stud Duck".
I was so full of s**t, Mr macho man, trained killer, ad nauseum.
At some time in that 14 days, a high school chum and I decided to go quail hunting.
Well, given my imagined status in the world of men, I was not going to garb myself in the traditional bird hunter's uniform. So, I stapped on my Aussie bush hat that I had picked up at the PX, donned a fatigue jacket with the sleeves cut off, hung a single action .22, in a fast draw rig, around my waist, properly bloused my jeans into my eight inch bird shooter boots, pick up my model 97 Winchester 12 guage, and I was ready to hunt quail. ( I suppose the revolver was just in case a wounded quail got into tight brush, and I would have to go in alone to take him out. you can never be too careful.)
We drove to his father's farm, and commenced hunting. About twenty minutes into the hunt, we jumped out a good sized covey.
Well "Mr Expert of all Things masculine", dropped that 97, and in the best Wyatt Earp form(TV version), whipped out that single six, and fired one shot at the departing quail. And dropped one!
Even as full of myself as I was at the time, I knew it was an impossible shot. I KNEW it was pure luck. . But I wasn't going to let this legend die.
We walked out to get the bird, and I had grazed the back deeply. and taken off most off it's head.
"Well, damn", said I, I shot too low, " I hate wasting good meat".
A few months after that, he enlisted in the Navy, moved to Taxachucetts, and married a Yankee chick. I couldn't honorably speak to him again.
He tried to recover his honor by moving back to the South, and then died. I have no witness to the best shot I ever made.
(But then there the "over the shoulder" dove shot. That will have to be another post.)
I was so full of s**t, Mr macho man, trained killer, ad nauseum.
At some time in that 14 days, a high school chum and I decided to go quail hunting.
Well, given my imagined status in the world of men, I was not going to garb myself in the traditional bird hunter's uniform. So, I stapped on my Aussie bush hat that I had picked up at the PX, donned a fatigue jacket with the sleeves cut off, hung a single action .22, in a fast draw rig, around my waist, properly bloused my jeans into my eight inch bird shooter boots, pick up my model 97 Winchester 12 guage, and I was ready to hunt quail. ( I suppose the revolver was just in case a wounded quail got into tight brush, and I would have to go in alone to take him out. you can never be too careful.)
We drove to his father's farm, and commenced hunting. About twenty minutes into the hunt, we jumped out a good sized covey.
Well "Mr Expert of all Things masculine", dropped that 97, and in the best Wyatt Earp form(TV version), whipped out that single six, and fired one shot at the departing quail. And dropped one!
Even as full of myself as I was at the time, I knew it was an impossible shot. I KNEW it was pure luck. . But I wasn't going to let this legend die.
We walked out to get the bird, and I had grazed the back deeply. and taken off most off it's head.
"Well, damn", said I, I shot too low, " I hate wasting good meat".
A few months after that, he enlisted in the Navy, moved to Taxachucetts, and married a Yankee chick. I couldn't honorably speak to him again.
He tried to recover his honor by moving back to the South, and then died. I have no witness to the best shot I ever made.
(But then there the "over the shoulder" dove shot. That will have to be another post.)
