Hunt 'im Shorty!!

Being from the South there are a few things that you grow up doing. One of those is hunting and the other is telling stories. Conveniently enough, these usually go hand in hand. Our family as a whole never has had much, but we've always got a story to tell about something. I even have a story to tell about when I learned how to properly tell a story in the typical Southern fashion. I was around 13 and had killed my first rabbit on my first hunt with beagles. A few days after this happened my grandpa had asked if I killed anything and I told him just one. Then I went on about my business. Later that day Dad asked me what I told Grandpa,

"That I killed a rabbit."

"That's not how you're supposed to tell a huntin' story son. You've got to tell about everything. How long the dogs ran, how cold it was outside, and what happened when the rabbit came out. You have to elaborate."

So if you've heard me tell this story, or any story, in the last 10-11 years this is how I've told it. In true Southern fashion, with plenty of elaboration and more details than necessary. So I here is my first real story that I learned to tell.

I woke up to Daddy shaking my arm. The first thing that I thought was that it was Saturday and I didn't have school. The second thing I thought was that it sure was cold. The third thing that went through my head was that Dad never wakes me up with out a purpose, and early on a Saturday morning 9 times out of 10 his purpose was usually some kind of work. This just happened to be lucky number 10.

"Weasel is outside with his dogs. He wants to know if you boys want to go rabbit hunting this morning. Yes or no?" Dad asked me.

"MmmmmmmmmmmYeaaa." Was my semi-conscious reply.

"Well get up and get some clothes on. Its cold outside, you may want your coveralls."

"MmmmmmmmK."

So I throw back the covers and roll out of bed to brave the cold and begin the first hunt of the day: for my clothes. I find my coveralls. I find two wool socks (extra points because they match). I find my long underwear tops and bottoms, sweat pants, and a long sleeve shirt (like I said, it was cold outside). Then I'm sitting on the edge of my bed trying to get all of this on, in the midst of this process I have to find my socks again because I've set them down somewhere between discovering them and starting to get dressed. Finally, I stomp into my boots and then head to the hall to get my gun. Dad was standing at the gun safe dealing out weapons and ammunition to my big brother, wearing a pair of Carhartt overalls with briar chaps that I swear are the only pair in that style left on this planet and that God awful OD Green helmet liner, that he might or might not have borrowed from the United States Army, with the ear flaps velcroed up over his head. Thomas my brother, I usually called him Tom but would resort to calling him Bubba when I wanted to irritate him, was shooting our Stevens Model 311 12 gauge because he was the older of us and bigger. That and because he shoots left handed or as I like to call it, bass-ackwards. Shooting a side-by-side like the Stevens, he doesn't have to worry about shells hitting him in the face like they would from a semi-automatic or pump shotgun. I on the other hand, shoot like the majority of the population so Dad handed me my pride and joy. Earlier that year on opening day of dove season Dad gave me my great Uncle Tom's Browning A-5 20 gauge semi-automatic shotgun. It was made in Belgium with a gold bead and a gold trigger. I thought it was the best thing that I had ever seen. To this day I still like to take it out of the safe and just look at it. So lets recap. I'm wearing three layers of clothes and a pair of coveralls and boots, I now have a shotgun and have loaded my pockets down with shotguns shells. So at 13 and probably 5'3" with all my combined gear I probably weigh 200lbs. A few years later I will learn that less is more, but right now I'm fired up and ready hunt! So out the door we go to meet up with Weasel and his dogs.

Now I don't know Weasel's real name. Hell for all I know, it could be Weasel. Odd names abound in North Alabama; Talmadge Napoleon, Valter, Gene Howard, Roger Phillip, Dana Hal and those are just in my family. Anyway, all my life Weasel has been running a pack of beagle dogs and one Doberman Pinscher on our property and the TVA public land behind our house, from about the second week of October all the way through February. Now I don't know why he ran that Doberman, but it was always funny to me to see that long-legged hound dog loping around with a bunch of stumpy beagles.

As I stepped out on the porch I was greeted with slate-gray skies and frost on the ground. Perfect rabbit hunting weather. Weasel was in his old blue Ford with the dog box in the back. Dad told us that Weasel would meet us on our neighbors property and we would turn the dogs loose over near the four-wheeler trail, and that we would walk over there to meet them. At this point I'm beginning to get excited, I'm headed on my first rabbit hunt AND this means we get to cross the big ditch in the middle of the pasture on the way to our neighbors field and I'll get to stomp through the frozen ditch. Nothing thrills a young boy more than the idea to be the first one to break some ice on a mud hole in the winter time.

After successfully defeating several pockets of ice along the way. We meet up with the other hunters in our neighbors pasture. Now Weasel had brought his grandson who was around my brother's age and another man named Dan. I've never learned Dan's last name, but I'll never forget this man as long as I live. Now, it was cold outside. Real cold. Like freeze the end of your nose, keep your hands in your pockets at all times cold. So we were all dressed for it. Coveralls, toboggans (Thats a knitted cap, not a sled for you people not from around here), wool socks, gloves, and heavy boots. Dan on the other hand was not dressed like this at all. He was wearing a regular cap, a flannel shirt opened at the neck and showing ample chest hair with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of jeans and a pair of regular work boots. And he had what could quite possibly be the largest chaw of tobacco I have ever seen in my life in his mouth. Any major leaguer worth their salt would have been impressed with the amount of chew that Dan had crammed in his mouth. I don't know how he spoke without it falling out. I can only assume that he had been chewing tobacco from around age 7 and was simply a pro at it. Dan found out that this was my first hunt with dogs and you would've thought that I had just accepted Jesus as my savior he was so excited to be a part of my first hunt.

"Never hunted with dogs before? WHOOO son, we're gonna get some rabbits today! Kick 'em dogs loose Weasel, lets get to huntin' !"

Have you ever rabbit hunted with dogs before? Its quite a chorus. The dogs are barking, the owners are hollering at the dogs, every one is hollering at each other. Its magic. And it all starts with one phrase that has happened every time I've ever hunted with dogs since.

"HUNT 'IM! HUNT 'IM! HUNT 'IM!"

Then its an all out cacophony of yells from dog owners and hunters alike. Each person has their own call to encourage the dogs. Each owner can distinguish each individual dog's bark the way a parent distinguish their children's voices.

"Talk to 'iiim!"

"Hunt for 'iiim"

"YEA YEA YEA YEA, Get in there!"

"Look fer 'iiim!"

"WHOO WHOO WHOO!!"

Its a few minutes of the dogs wandering around hunting for scent and then they are in the brush and they're talking back to their owners. Names for the dogs? Hah, they've all got names. There's Lucy, Killer, Dale, Tracker, Blue, Red, Banjo, Stonewall Jackson, Clement, Hunter, Stumpy, Shorty, #27, Eight-Ball, Long Shot, P.G.T. Beauregard , Samantha Jane, and Bull. Just to name a few. Each one has its own personality and its own job too. Some dogs have a hot nose, meaning that they are usually the ones that pick up scent first. Some of them are jump dogs, they work the edge of the brush and get the rabbits to run out of the woods and into the field. Others are there to keep the pack moving and cast for scent when the trail goes cold and needs to be picked back up. Some of them make a 'Chuff Chuff Chuff" noise as they move nose to the ground looking for scent, others are talking to each other and sniffing around. Everyone else is hollering at them to get in there. And then it happens. One of them hits a trail and its on.

"BAAAAARPPP!! BAAARRRP!!!"

"Hunt 'im Shortaaaaaaayyyy!!! Hunt 'im!"

As soon as they started I saw something that is burned in my mind and I will hold for ever. Dan took off with his shotgun held in one hand by the action (exactly like they show you not to do in the Hunter's Safety Course) and jumped into the brush like there was no place he would rather be. Now this is the place where we used to cut our firewood so it was awfully grown up on the edge, perfect for rabbits to live in. Not perfect to walk in. Dan was in and through this stuff like a fish in water. After he made it about 10 feet in (One Long-Legged Jump it seemed like) he turned around to me and said "Come on son! You ain't gonna shoot any rabbits back there. Stick with me and we'll find you one." Briars pulled at me, my coveralls were too long, and I kept banging my gun against trees. I couldn't have been having a better time.

After stomping through the brush with Dan for a while, Dad decided to put me on the four-wheeler trail. Now, Cotaco Creek runs through the TVA land behind our house and it was well past flood stage on this day, which makes for perfect rabbit hunting because the water pushes them up out of the water. So I'm set up on the four-wheeler trail about half way between the field where we started and the water of the creek. Now I'm 13 so after about 6 minutes of me standing there, I'm starting to get bored. Then I hear some rustling in the pine thicket behind me. Turning my head I see a rabbit has made its way out into the trail... and I'm facing the other way. So using all of the stealth that a 13 year old in too many clothes with boots about a half size too big can muster, I ease around and snick the safety off of my shotgun. The rabbit sees me and jumps around to bolt back into the trees. So I up with my shotgun and because it holds three shots, my 13 year old logic tells me I need to use all three so I cut loose and don't stop until I run empty. Then comes the moment of truth, I go to see if I've made the shot or missed.

Sure enough, I made the shot. The next thing I realize is that this rabbit is HUGE. I've never seen one this big. I pick it up by its back legs and its ears touch the ground. Now I'm not tall by any means, but this thing is monstrous. Dad had heard me shoot and came to check on me so clutching my prize, and grinning like only a true southern boy with his first kill can, we head back to where everyone else is so that I can show off my trophy. I think Ol' Dan was happier than I was about me getting this rabbit. He was flat tickled that I had killed my first rabbit on my first hunt. Dad showed me how to field dress a kill, and then we headed back to the woods to see if any more will jump up.

We didn't see any more that day I think word got out that the Rabbit Slayer was in town and they all found a hole, but I didn't care. I'd been on my first rabbit hunt and it was a highlight of my life.

See you when I see you

-- Ryan

It would've been right around harvest time.

(This is my re-telling of an account that my grandfather J.V. Wade told us last Christmas about his

time in Germany during World War II)

Riding in the back of that deuce and a half was always bumpy and the recent rains had just made the roads that much worse. Ruts and potholes were every where. It was like riding across a field that had just been plowed. I guess thats what happens when you follow behind tanks on dirt roads. Looking out across the wheat fields I could see them beginning to turn to liquid gold in the late afternoon sun. If it hadn't been for the war, it would have been right around harvest time. Men would have been cutting and stacking bundles, sending bundles to the mill to be threshed and ground. Now all that wheat was going to go to waste since all the men were gone off to fight. And here I was, a country boy from Somerville, Alabama. Thousands of miles away from my home and my new wife. Fighting a war because sometimes wars need to be fought and when your country says go, you go. Germany was just a place I had heard of on the radio before a few months ago. Now I was smack dab in the middle of it, going from town to town fighting with Hitler's boys and trying to roust them out of local areas.

As we were headed into the next town that was some name I couldn't understand, much less pronounce, some deer burst from the field nearest the truck and sprinted for the nearby woods. Now rations weren't exactly scarce but anything could help and Cookie being a backwoods boy from Arkansas said if we could knock one down that he would skin it and make a meal out of it. So me and some of the other boys cracked off a few shots to no avail. Now I'm not saying that we missed, but if we hit any of them it wasn't in a vital enough area to put one down for the count.

It was just a few more minutes before we got to the edge of that town, but it felt like 10 miles because we had to go so slow to make it over that terrible road. As we got there Sarge hollered at me to get around the back side of the town so I could watch for any of the enemy that tried to sneak away from us through the hedge row that was around the back of the town. So I high tailed it around through that wheat field and set up to keep an eye out for anything that might come my way.

After a little while of seeing nothing and twiddling my thumbs I got the bright idea that I would clean my M1 so I wouldn't have it to do that night before I went to bed and could get a few extra minutes of sleep. So I took my handkerchief out and spread it on the ground and on my knees broke my rifle down into its individual parts and began to clean it up, thinking only of how good it was going to be to see the look on the faces of my buddies when I got to go to sleep before they did that night.

Now the M1 is not an easy weapon to take apart and put back together. It takes a few minutes to get it apart and you are not going to get it back together in a hurry so when I heard some movement through the wheat I hoped it was the deer that were coming back to graze and not any Germans trying to escape from the town the rest of the company had just started searching.

After a minute or two of trying to convince myself that it was just the wind, I heard voices speaking German and knew I was either in trouble or about to be. Well I chanced a glance up from where I was crouched. My quick look showed me good news and bad news. The good news was that they weren't headed towards me and that if they kept walking the same way they were now they would probably miss me and never even know I was there. The bad news was that not only were they German soldiers, but I could see by their uniforms insignia that they were SS. Hitler's elite special forces. They had warned us about these soldiers and everything we had heard about them made them seem like each one of them was 7 feet tall and indestructible, so the very last thing I wanted to do was tie it on with one of these boys, much less two of them.

Another minute, that felt like an hour, went by and I chanced another look; my luck looked like it had run out, they had changed direction and were headed right for me. Well I started doing some thinking. I couldn't run. If I did, they'd shoot me in the back for sure. I couldn't put my rifle back together in time to use it. Looked like my only option was my bayonet. So I put the bolt of my gun back in and rolled the rest of the pieces up in my handkerchief. I put my bayonet on the end of my gun, put my hand over the bolt so it wouldn't fall out, and got ready to do what I had to do. They had their rifles on their shoulder so I knew I could get one of them and if the other one got me in turn, Sarge knew where I was so they wouldn't leave me over here.

So with nothing else in front of me and these Germans getting closer to stumbling on to me sooner and sooner I jumped up out of that wheat and yelled at the top of my lungs for them to stop. Standing face to face with those SS boys, I realized something. They looked as scared as I did. Both of them stuck their hands up in the air and didn't move. So I motioned with my rifle for them to turn around and start walking back to the town. Following them back into town, I had to holler at them a few times to stop talking and keep their hands up. I don't know if they understood me or not, but they would put their hands back up and hush.

I marched them back into town with their hands in the air and me with a rifle with no bullets. Sarge told me that I had done a good job and to get back out there in case I any more Germans tried to sneak out. So I went back, but the first thing I did was stop and put my rifle back together faster than I had ever done before.