Vintage Car

Head Chrome Screw

Hare today gone tomorrow

 

On our last visit to Percy's place we did not have the time to go on the hunt for springhares as we had planned so we returned a couple of weeks after I and Nessy the eel had tried to strangle Stretch, or that was the story he was telling anyway.

 

As usual we arrived in the evening and had supper while we chatted before retiring to bed early. We lay in bed in the dark reminiscing about the Percy Pig and the Nessy Eel episodes before eventually falling asleep.

 

Early morning, again at the crack of dawn, we had our breakfast and were told that the hunting vehicle "Truck" required some running repairs, before it could be used on our expedition. The driver door lock had rusted and fallen off, the tailgate had rattled itself loose and was hanging on by one screw, the seat needed to be fixed to the floor as it was sliding backwards and forwards on its sliders and other odds and ends. Stub screwed sliding latch bolts on the inside of both doors, I replaced the screws in the tailgate, and Stretch fixed the seat (or so he thought). We kept ourselves busy throughout the day until supper, then we gathered our gear and guns and set off on our hunting safari. All three of us sat in the front with Stub doing the driving, because he knew the area and more importantly he knew how to drive the deathtrap he affectionately called a "Truck"

 

We made our way along dirt roads towards open grassland where the hunt would begin. The terrain, over which we eventually had to drive, was filled with unexpected bumps, potholes, rocks and grass clumps but we made our way gingerly to the start point. The city boy (me) and stretch were dispatched to stand on the back of the vehicle each armed with a weapon. I had a .38 revolver, Stretch had the .22 rifle and Stub had the pistol we tied ourselves to the roll bar in order to have both hands free to fire our weapons. The art of springhare hunting is to ride on the truck with a searchlight fixed to the roof which would be panned around until two shiny reflecting orbs were spotted. These orbs would be the eyes of a springhare reflecting the light and they would stop dead in their tracks, because they would be blinded by the light. This made for easy shooting, or so I was told, and was compared to shooting fish in a barrel.

 

Once spotted, we could open fire on the blinded hares and should be able to bag a goodly number in a couple of hours. With two of the miracle marksmen on the back, loosely secured to the roll bar we set off across the field. Stub had to continually fight the loose steering mechanism and even though we kept more or less straight he was wildly turning the steering wheel left and right to correct the free play. Stretch manipulated the searchlight with the rifle slung over his shoulder and I gripped my revolver in both sweaty hands while we all tried to stay balanced. We raced around in the pitch dark with the old "Truck" roaring through what was left of an exhaust pipe, while belching billows of blue, oil filled, stinky smoke. This was continued for an hour or so but we never saw one glowing reflective eye. Stub then decided that it would be wiser if he stood on the back with Stretch, so he had a wider view of the field and could manipulate the light with both hands, while I did the "aiming" driving of the truck.

 

 

I hopped off the back and climbed into the truck, neglecting to slide the latch bolt, that Stub had so cleverly fitted, home. This meant that my door was unsecured but I didn't realize this. Stupid me, reaching out and feeling for a seatbelt in a vintage truck. How stupid. I revved the engine engaged gear and pulled away without checking to see that my passengers were ready. With a yelp or two they both flipped flat on their backs into the bed of the truck before shouting STOP! STOP! STOP! I slammed on brakes and the vehicle eventually came to a stop. They righted themselves and re-secured themselves to the roll bar, with threats of dire damage to my person if I did it again.

 

I didn't rev the engine this time and managed to pull away fairly smoothly before picking up a bit of speed, when suddenly there was a screech from Stub, GO RIGHT, RIGHT, RIGHT. I swung the steering wheel to the right and managed to get the truck to co-operate, just before Stretch screamed STOP! I jammed my foot on the brake and all hell broke loose. My seat fixings, that Stretch had installed, snapped, and I and the seat shot forward until I was stopped by the steering wheel with my head slamming painfully on the hooter button. The hooter which had not worked for ten years, took it upon itself to start working again and blared forth into the chaos of the black night. Shots rang out and the chrome emblem fixed to the bonnet of the truck disintegrated before my tear filled eyes. More shots, and more bonnet vanished. I was screeching for them to aim higher so they could hit the springhare when my foot slipped off the clutch causing the truck to jump forward.  In the meantime, the two hunters had loosened the securing rope, so they could jump off and proceed on foot, so when the truck jumped forward, they were flung backwards until they hit the tailgate. The repair work on the tailgate proved to be too weak and they were unceremoniously dumped in a heap on the ground. We sat in stunned silence in the dark trying to catch our breath while the truck belched smoke and our ears rang from the gunshots and the noisy exhaust and the hooter continued to blare into the night. The springhare smiled at me, gave me the finger, and hopped off into the dark.

 

After what seemed like an eternity we got up to check for damage to our bodies and to try to switch off the noisy hooter. Because of the bullet damage to the bonnet we couldn't get it open to disconnect it, so Stub climbed under the truck, placed his pistol close to the back of the hooter and fired a shot. The hooter stopped blaring instantly, then we sat on the deck of the truck having a smoke to calm our nerves.

 

After sitting in silence except for the noisy truck we all started babbling simultaneously. What happened? Where was the hare? Who murdered the emblem and the bonnet? What to do next? They wouldn't believe me when I told them of the hare and the finger, or the smile and they both denied the emblem murder, so we decided to give hunting one more try. Our thinking was that the truck noise, hooter and shots had frightened away any prospective victims in the area so we moved to another field after fixing the seat by tying it down with rope.

 

The journey to the new field was uneventful and I think I drove the truck better than Stub because I was slightly taller than him and could actually see over, instead of through the steering wheel. He will deny this of course, while he hides his sneaky cushion behind the seat.

By the time we had reached the new field our heart rates and breathing had returned to normal and we were ready to commence battle once again.

 

I was elected to keep driving, which suited me, because I had no real desire to kill anything and could still vividly remember a little Mossie bird that I had shot with my BB gun a few years earlier and how bad I felt for months afterward.

This time I waited for the go ahead before setting off on the hunt. I engaged gear with a grind and a grate, released the clutch slowly, and moved off into the dark. Stub panned the light and we all searched for springhares. I glimpsed a movement in the grass to the left, then a couple of ears popped up above the grass and shiny orbs as I shouted LEFT! and swung the truck in the new direction. We came up to shooting distance fairly quickly with Stretch and Stub firing wildly in the general direction of the hare. The hare stood there transfixed by the lights while the two "marksmen" emptied their magazines without even getting close to their prey. I jumped out of the truck, picked up a decent sized rock and in one throw, I crowned the hare on the side of the head. Stub jumped off the truck and delivered the death shot. I felt proud of my throw but was really heart sore about my role in the demise of the unfortunate hare. I'd shown them that no hare gave me the finger without payback of some sort.

 

We carried on hunting and only managed to bag one more hare, before heading home. I was pleased that we had to leave before supper the next day, as Stub's mom was going to prepare the hares for consumption. I think that if I had had to eat Hoppy, I would never have accepted another invitation to visit Stub's parents again. As it was, I still felt rather bad about my role in his death. I'm a soft hearted city boy not some farmer's son who had been taught the arts of slaughtering, fishing and hunting. I preferred to get my meat or fish from the supermarkets pre-packed fridges and shelves. I discovered that I was not into killing or butchering even though I did enjoy steak and chops etc.

 

About the Author

Years of experience with Disability, it's complexity and survival are tackled head on in these articles. Roly has been wheelchair bound with myositis for some 10 years now and he has numerous articles published in magazines in South Africa and on various sites on the internet.

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