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WEEKEND TELEGRAPH - 20.9.03
This week I write about my shame. It has taken 10 years to summon the courage
to tell this story. Around the walls of my little office hang some
trophies, which bring back good memories. The 'Royal' I shot near Fort
William. The magnificent head (rights, three and four) from the Quantock
Staghounds. The Mouflon ram that I shot in Texas. The fourth trophy
is my hair shirt - my purgative of pride - my daily dose of shame and
a reminder of the old saying - "if it ain't broke, don't mend
it". The trophy in question is a rather splendid, palmated, head
of a Fallow Buck - a very special Buck. Knowledgeable people give a
little whistle when I tell them where it was shot - a very private
place indeed, where it is rumoured only the Prince of Wales and the
Sultan of Brunei had been accorded the honour of shooting a buck. Not,
in short, a place that you want to screw up. Why you are asking yourselves
was Poole accorded this honour in the first place? The answer to that
is that it is none of your damned business. The trouble began,
as it often does, with traffic. What should have been an 8-hour drive
became first 10 and then 11 hours. This meant that it was
dark when I arrived and had no time to check my rifle on the range. Travel
can do strange things to a scope sight even if it travels in a special
padded case. We would be out before dawn the next morning, so no time then.
Never mind, I told my host; I had a bore-sighter in my bag. The theory
of this ingenious bit of kit (American, of course) is that you fit a sort
of reverse monocular on the end of your barrel. When you look through the
riflescope you see a grid. You will have already checked on the range where
the point of zero for your rifle appears on the grid. Get the cross hairs
of the scope on that point and you have zeroed your rifle without firing
a shot. That, My Children, is the theory and in practice theretofore, it
had been spot on accurate. What went wrong that night, I shall never know,
perhaps hubris in showing off the machine (my host had never seen one)
caused me to fit it incorrectly. Anyway, the machine showed the rifle to
be wildly off zero. I adjusted the sights accordingly. I met the stalker
well before dawn and we drove into the forest. Then walked quietly down
a well-worn path and climbed into a comfortable high-seat
in an oak tree. We sat there still and silent as the grey dawn seeped in
around us and it was light enough to see the cross hairs in the sight.
In front and below us spread a well-cropped deer lawn. It was a perfect
firing point. Still we sat, and then the stalker nudged me. They came swiftly
and silently, as though materialising out of nowhere - six young bucks,
all with good heads, gambolling at first in the open, then settling to
feed:"
Take your pick" came the whisper. I lined up on the nearest buck -
50 yards - I could not miss. I lined up the crosshairs just behind the
shoulder, steadied my breathing and squeezed the trigger - a perfect heart
shot. At the sound of the shot the surprised bucks milled about. My buck
was obviously untouched, but 50 yards beyond him another buck leaped and
then set off at the headlong dash that often follows a fatal shot and went
crashing into the undergrowth. The stalker grabbed my rifle, slid down
the ladder and legged it across the meadow. I sat still with the misery
of failure seeping through me - after all that… The bucks disappeared:"
Here!" came the shout and I climbed sadly down and trudged across
the meadow:"
F---!" I said to myself - "F---! F---!""
Here!" and there, in a fold in the ground, lay, mirabile dictu, a
dead buck. My companion was standing beside it with a far away look in
his eye. He said nothing. Then the Head Keeper dematerialised from the
forest:"
Well done, Sir!" he said, but I knew and my stalker knew that it was
not my buck, but he was a good one. We drove back to the deer larder in
silence:"
I'll have the head ready for you in an hour" he said - "You better
come into the house for a cup of tea." The tea restored me somewhat:"
What happened?" I asked."
You clean missed your buck, but the bullet hit a stone, ricocheted and,
well, you got a buck, but there ain't no one going to know what happened
but you and me." Many people have congratulated me on that head. I
smile and say nothing. But that head reminds me every day of what really happened. I f---ed up
and I am still ashamed.
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