Many veterans of war, from the 19th-century until the current Iraq war, come home lacking the desire to ever kill again, if just for a while or for a lifetime. Some teeter back and forth in their desire to hunt, which is the case of the veteran in this story as it was for his father in the piece, “On War & White-tails.” This is for vets everywhere who have endured the pains of war and come home to find peace in their lives, to sort things out and hopefully, hunt once again if indeed they hunted prior to their involvement over “there.” And certainly, this is for those who never made it home. You will never be forgotten and the world must surely hope you’ve gone to a better place that exists here on Earth…JMP
Song of the Sparrow
Everyone who hunts or has hunted vividly remembers that first kill; first gun and first dose of the always familiar, remorse. Feelings and tastes are bittersweet in nature for the hunter and almost ever hunter’s first kill is a bird and not usually a game bird. The first gun is often times a Daisy lever-action- a formidable .177 caliber…
The first disheartening, wrongful kill, quite often is a sparrow. Perhaps, in an excited state after receiving the deadly Daisy, but a state quite natural for the hunter to be-He may slither, Indian-like, through a grove of spruce, a youngster playing “soldier”, bellied to the ground as if he were avoiding unfriendly fire. Stalking, he slides atop the slippery, needled ground, first using his ears to hone in on the song of the sparrow. Then, seeing the flitting, mottled chirper upon a bough of spruce his instincts kick in and he chambers a coppered round and aims, ever so carefully. He fires and hears for the first time, the unmistakable and hollow thud of a hit. With the warm, dead sparrow in his hand, he learns how quickly remorse breeds. In an instant he learns of bittersweet and it will leave an indelible etching upon his heart. It is necessary, this lesson, even though it hurts him…
The man in this story found his first gun beneath a Christmas tree, and his first kill went much like that what has all ready transpired. The gun was a Daisy; the kill a sparrow. The gun he no longer has but the sorrow of that wrongful kill lingers, still today. There’s a chamber in a man’s heart that hangs on to these things. And never, but never allows them to leave. Nature’s way perhaps of reminding him to refrain in the future? Of giving him something to think about, evaluate and, ultimately, determine whether in fact, he is truly a hunter? In most cases he learns that he is and thus matures into someone more responsible, more dignified, more selective and legal with regard to his various pursuits afield. And it all doesn’t come upon him like a bolt of lightning. But more so, like the Chinook Winds; subtle, yet impactful and powerful like that of water dripping constantly onto a rock. Eventually, it leaves a mark, which through time grows deeper.
His hunting objectives change as years leave him and those things he once so needed to accomplish become less important. In his twilight years he will have arrived at a place he never knew existed. Perhaps, not so much a place, but instead, a time-a time in his life which will afford him an understanding of it all? The need to stalk and hunt and kill-his memories of hunts past and fallen prey and frustrating, fruitless days as well as those days when everything flew just right or ran broadside at close range will be as clear to him as the summoning bells of Notre Dame Cathedral…
He may realize a distinct sadness if and when he no longer feels the atavistic sadness if and when he no longer feels the atavistic urge to hunt and he may reluctantly forgo everything the autumn woods once provided him. Though, in his mind and heart, he will hunt until he dies. And all of this began with a vintage ’52 Daisy air rifle and the sweet song of a sparrow, long dead.
This man has kept, for forty-four years since that day of the sparrow; a backyard feeder well stocked, for all birds, a chore of passion in memory of his wrongful kill of ’52. For that fallen sparrow had taught him, among many things, that indeed it is more important how a man lives than how he dies; of reverence for wild things, of undiluted hatred for wanton waste…
Time in the fields and woods almost demands that a hunter become more sophisticated, a maestro, a collector of tack-driving rifles, smooth swinging shotguns and crystal-clear optics. It all stems, perhaps, from his desire to realize near perfection? In his furtiveness, yes, but more so in his penchant for constant, instant kills. He is completing a circle of sorts. One which will hopefully end with him in an oaken rocking chair with a store of sweet memories to ponder-memories that will serve him well and full him as needed. And, save for the fallen sparrow of 1952, clean as the driven snows of November…
And just as this young hunter neared the peak of his prowess, his expertise, his sophistication in the hunting fields, a war in the jungles of Asia beckons him, and not being a Flower Child, draft-card burner, or a van driver with a head full of highly intoxicating smoke and a belly full of vegetable and hard liquor, he goes. Not gladly, but not reluctantly either. His father provided him this quality, these values, this love of country; right or wrong with regard to their involvement or quest…
The land there in the jungles was strange to him, at best; frightening and it swallowed him as easily as might the whale of fame in the classic, “Moby Dick.” The snakes alone were capable of stopping a man’s heart within minutes of the deadly accurate strike. The blood-sucking leeches deprived him the feeling of cleanliness, which, as his mother always chimed, “…was next to Godliness.” The rains, there called monsoons, drenched not only the land, but spirit, that normally happy spirit of G.I’s not so engaged. He seemed a captive to this strange jungle, the deadly killers that not only slithered but those others, those unseen enemies which shot from trees or impenetrable foliage; the hidden pits in the jungle’s floor. He was forever glad he was a hunter that he could handle a rifle, that he was able to attune himself to the wildness of strange places and that he could, if he wanted and needed, kill-instinctively or otherwise. Glad was he that his senses were sharp as that of his carbon steel bayonet that he was keenly aware of those things around him he needed to avoid if he was to survive. He felt primitive, savage but confident that he would work his way out of all this jungle madness and often summoned soporific memories of swamp pheasants, bottomland whitetails and grape-tangle grouse. Even though in the chaos of it all, the memories were at times, of a tenuous nature. Still, it was his way of retaining sanity and dissolving fear. All of these things were now but fantasies, dreams he wanted to once again realize yet he knew. Knew deep down, he may never again see a whitetail, hear the thunder of a grouse, or awe at the autumnal beauty of a hickory-laden hollow…
He remembered his father’s frequent words. “You kill it, son, you eat it.” His father neglected to mention war; the killing of men. And his first three kills in combat were at close range, that distinct hollow sound of a hit once again stinging his ears, several hits…Those VC fell but ten feet from the muzzle of his rifle and strangely, all he thought of at the time was the little fallen sparrow, that long ago sorrowful misdeed, in the spruce grove. He thought daily, “I may never hunt again, even if I live through all of this.” But his God saw to it that he did, at least, get home.
There were no parades, no banners, no flag wavers to welcome him back. But he was grateful that there wasn’t a VC, a Charley behind every tree and that was reward enough. And the hunter inside of him began to awaken. He walked in the woods and smiled with a certain familiarity he felt. His swamp and woods were his official greeters and nothing there seemed to have changed, nothing there was superficial, unnatural or frightening. Back then and now, as he felt his heart flutter with the evening call of a rooster pheasant. “Nature’s rendition of Taps,” he thought aloud. And he headed home…
He wondered if he would or could hunt again. The jungle had taken n unseen toll upon his heart and way of thinking with regard to killing. “For man to kill man is not.” He was startled out of his meditative mood by a stabbing in his back, a pain he’d carried from the jungle in the form of shrapnel un-removed.
Small game season came shortly after he’d gotten home and his childish level of anxiety seemed intact and it felt as wonderful as always. He felt ready, excited and hopeful. He walked to the hardwoods below his mountain home where he planned a grouse or two for the evening meal. Perhaps a few gray squirrels. He wasn’t sure, he didn’t really care and it never did matter all that much to him. He hunted mostly, to capture feelings, create memories and lighten his heart. A heart that now, needed lightening more than ever before…The killing had always been, to his mind and heart, largely beside the point. And always , things out there seemed to fall into just the right places. As Nature and God, one entity, wanted it. And he always felt like an actor, merely playing out a role, working a cosmic script, written for him that day he was born.
This first day back in the hunting woods afforded him ten chances to kill; seven grays, three ruffed grouse. But his game bag at dusk was empty. Something had happened to him and even though the sights and sounds of the day filled him, he was overcome with his decisions not to kill. The confusion was cumbersome, perplexing and he was unable to answer his very own question, a simple “why?” Then he thought of old Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce Tribe. And to himself he said, “I may kill no more, forever?” He thought of the Asian jungles, the fallen sparrow and though he hadn’t died in that faraway land and had come home as he prayed, his hunter’s heart was dying right here at home as he prayed, his hunters heart was dying right here at home. His freezer remained devoid of small game…
Deer Season: And the winds of autumn carried the pungent smells of decaying forest litter; exciting smells always. The phone sounded and his friend’s excited voice said, “Hey, Partner! How’s it goin’? Time to pack the camp duffel and fill your pockets all with snooze tins!”
“Naw, not this year, Oz. I think I’ll just stay here at home and maybe hunt around here.”
His friend pleaded, “C’mon you big sissy, let’s get it together and head for camp!”
It wasn’t to be and his winter was spent reading the literary works Gassett, Ruark, Hill, Waterman, O’Conner and Thoreau. Trying somewhat, to fantasize and it didn’t work for him. It didn’t carry even one of the joys he thought it might; hundreds of pages of reading…
His racked guns carried the dusts of wintertime, forced-air heat. He spent a winter without his sacred venison, without savory memories and with few phone calls from hunting friends. Silence was the tongue, the language of his empty heart and there was somewhat of a tenuous nature about his choices; those being to forego the ritualistic charm of it all, the camp stay, the deer hunt. For somehow, the melody of the deer hunting process, of the hunting process in general was no longer stentorious insofar as reeling him in…
Springtime brought the incessant, raspy chorus of high, chevroned Canadian Geese; the songs of the creeks returned to the hollows near his home and the now chilling rains caused the marsh Peepers to chorus their way through the nights. The pallid meadows allowed the rains to color in their character, nourish their wildflowers and make feed for winter-thinned white-tails and the whole of the home front geography went into a sort of splendiferous metamorphosis, and his heart seemed once again, alive and full and glad to be pounding within his chest-the pagan emptiness gone for now.
Then summer brought ever-thickening clover and woodchucks to the fields near his home, countless woodchucks, forever bobbing nervously and tentatively about the meadows abundant with wild forbs and flowers. The doves, long back on summer nesting grounds, were now slightly imprinted and graciously sang their seemingly mournful songs for him from nearby, wire-strand perches, somehow soothing the heart of the former hunter-former soldier…
Sitting on the redwood deck of his pedestrian home one early morning, enjoying the unfolding of it all and an authoritative mug of ebony-colored coffee, he spotted his longtime friend, Oz, speeding up the long, dusty drive. “Oz Andretti!” he thought, “Wonder what he’s doing here so early?”
Oz slid to an abrupt, dusty stop and was out of the Subaru wagon before it had stopped completely. He opened the hatch, beating the settling dust and without so much as a greeting such as “Hello, Buddy, ” Oz yelled to him, “Hey Partner! Look at this baby!”
Oz handed him a riffle not a whole lot smaller than an anti-tank bazooka of WWII vintage. “It’s a Ruger, bull-barreled two-twenty Swift and very d-e-a-d-l-y!”
“Oz, my father attached vent pipes to the tops of water heaters that were smaller than the tube on that thing! Why in God’s world would you want that thing?”
“Got any chucks out there at 300-yards, I’ll show ya little buddy?”
“Lottsa chucks, Oz, but how in the world are you gonna hold that beast steady, offhand?”
“Ya don’t Dummy, look at this!” Oz went to the open hatch and came out with a tripod, and planting it into the yard sod, said, “C’mon, look through the scope. I have it on twelve power.”
Looking through the crystalline optic, he spotted a woodchuck. “There’s one, Oz! Go ahead, take a shot at it, show me how good you are with that cannon!”
“Me? You shoot it, that’s why I brought it over, for you to try!”
“Oz, I ain’t trying nothing. Nothing…”
Oz offered, “Well at least line the little porker up in the scope, fer cryin’ out loud. What’s that gonna hurt?”
He lay behind the rifle, peered through the scope and asked, “How far do ya figure that chuck’s out there, Oz?”
“’bout three hundred, I’d say, give or take.”
“Where would a guy hold on a shot that far with this howitzer?”
“Right where you want the bullet to impact, my friend.”
“Really? It’ll be right on that far out?”
“Bet your sweet bippy, buddy. That’s a Ruger Swift, one fine combo, period!”
The former hunter could feel his pulse accelerate, his primordial instincts kicking back in to that place within, where they always had been, however dormant-but never, dead..”Right on, huh?”
“Yep. Wherever you want the bullet to be.”
Think the range is about three hundred, maybe a little better, Oz?”
“Yep. I do, how about you?”
“I think you may be real close, Oz, real close!” The Ruger sounded and Oz, somewhat surprised, squinted as he looked out into the heat waves of the summer field.
“Well?” Oz questioned. “How’d ya like it?”
“Fine piece of weaponry, I’d say and there’s no doubt, that old chuck never knew what hit him! This is some riffle, my friend.” And the hunter was “back.” Something deep inside of him blossomed once again, torched his love of the hunting challenge. Just as he’d hope, deep down, would one day happen…
Still today, he has some annoyance with the killing. But, back in the early 1980’s he became a full-time, freelance outdoor writer, and so he kills, and hunts, and stalks, and fishes, forever making personal choices, selective always, during each of his pursuits. And although he’s given up certain forms of the hunting he so loves, he celebrates the caring hunter supportively.
He knows the instincts deeply imbedded, won’t be easily dispelled and he knows, too, that killing is a means by which wild things are kept in favorable balance and he feels good about his few choices in the autumn fields. He knows his bullets will consistently fly true and kill quickly-far more merciful than time.
He feels good about not leaving the hunting to those who care less than he and too, feels deep in his heart, that, if given a choice, game animals, if indeed they could understand and choose, would opt for the swiftness of the hunters bullet rather than the many, and uglier, alternatives.
He ponders that long ago, albeit distasteful lesson, he learned from the fallen sparrow. And he is happy knowing he “heard” and listened to her ancient, last song, understanding that he’d made a terrible mistake. For over the years that will follow, he will make up for his error in judgment a thousand fold by doing that which is right, and biologically sound in the hunting fields.
Perhaps, if there weren’t seemingly mindless hunters-to-be out there, to make that single, remorseful mistake with an indiscriminate Daisy air rifle, there simply wouldn’t exist, the sweet, melancholy songs of sparrows? He believes that today, but didn’t back then when the bitterness of the kill seemed so ugly, so pungent to his tastes, so hurtful to his young, then innocent heart.
To him, killing in the autumn fields is like the dreaded tetanus injection for preventing locked jaws. He knows it will hurt, but too, knows it is necessary.
He feels that as long as we the hunters, forever listen to the songs of the sparrows, the language of wild tongues, we will always do that which is correct, righteous, with regard to conduct in the hunts of tomorrow and throughout our lives. For never in the annals of wildlife history, have sparrows been known to mislead, lie, or sing a deceptive song, never. And yes, at least one sparrow, long gone, but not forgotten, brought the hunter in this story back to that place he wanted to be all along. Just a single, precious, little sparrow, imagine…
Late Summer, his wife stepped outside onto the deck where he sat jotting notes for a story. Glancing over his shoulder, he questioned, “What’s for supper, Sweet Peaa?”
She pushed his cap down over his eyes and said, “I saw you had something thawing on the kitchen counter, so I didn’t bother to take out anything! What is that you have thawing?”
“Woodchuck”, he answered, “We’re having southern-fried and very tender woodchuck.”
“If we’re having woodchuck, Bwana, you’re doing the cooking!”
“Not a problem,” he said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I was merely waiting to see whether you’d taken something from the freezer I didn’t know about.” He continued jotting notes and whistling his haunting tune.
His wife, now inside, yelled out, “What’s that song you’re whistling?”
“Don’t really have a name for it, why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s very pretty. Do you know the lyrics?”
“Not really, Sweet Peas, only the meaning.”
“Okay then, Mr. Whistler, what is the meaning?”
“Means we’re gonna have venison this winter.”
Again, his wife questioned. “Where did you learn the song?”
“Oh, from a little sparrow, a long, long time ago, not only taught me the tune, but something far more important about life and death, I doubt I’ll ever forget…”
Author’s note
It somehow feels important and pertinent to note that the hunter in this story skinned and ate every woodchuck he killed that summer and every summer thereafter. He tanned the hides with the hair on and used them, stitched together, to cover the interior walls of his loading and fly-tying shanty; as a sort of poor man’s insulation. The tails of the chucks are used in several of his fly patterns-and the feet? He dehydrated those, made a hole in each in order that they could attach to a strand of rawhide, which made, he says, “…for an eerie looking necklace.” At Halloween, he handed these out to Trick & Treating children of the neighborhood along with, of course, a generous handful of hickory-smoked jerky. No wanton waste in this hunter’s life…