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Stories

Welcome to Kingstone Deer Management's Story page. Here you will find stories that we have written from past experiences.

Click on a Title below to read the story.

Back to Africa

Out of Africa

An Invitation to Germany

A Scottish Stag for My European Friends

An American’s Tale

2008 Hunt in South Africa

Nduna Hunting Safari 2009



An American’s Tale



I have the permission of an American friend to publish this tale of hunting in Europe whilst he was stationed in France during his military service.

My friend is called Phil Harris, from Louisiana, a dedicated hunter and sportsman (now).

Phil relates:

I suppose this is as good a place to spin this yarn as I'm going to find.    And it's not really a yarn as every word is true.

In olden times when continental Europe was still part of the civilized world, I spent some time there with the USAF near Pont a Mousson on the Moselle River.    I didn't run into Snoopy there but did do a bit of hunting with the American Rod & Gun Club on an old ammunition dump somewhere in France.    This was before the De Gaulic (or should that be "Gaulic"?) revolution when the French began to demonstrate their traditional ingratitude for the umpteenth time.    All was good and fellowship abounded.   On the way to the hunting grounds, I had a cup of cafe royal to put me in the right frame of mind.

The hunt consisted of two drives, both done with dogs under the auspices of some natives of the area, and one in particular who was in charge of the pack.   It was as an assorted bunch of specimens of canines as you can possibly imagine.   There were otter hounds, fox terriers, and all sorts of in betweens.   I think there was a German short hair or two in the bunch and maybe a Weimeraner.   But don't get the idea these were of the pedigreed sort for nothing could be further from the truth.   I've given the general types but there were lots of "in-betweens" in the array of specimens.   I seem to recall there was even a Chihuaha in the bunch.

On the morning hunt I was positioned on a low knoll overlooking a fairly open wooded area.   It was classic.   First I heard the sound of the "hounds"!   Looking closely to the edge of visibility I saw him. Prancing like one of Santa's reindeer came the roebuck.  I remember thinking he was about the size of a "Great Dane".   I held my trusty Sauer drilling (30-06/12-12) recently acquired at the R & G club commissary at the ready.   "POW!" I fired the rifle barrel [which I had solemnly sworn on the honour of my mothers grave (she was still hale and hearty then) that I would neither load nor fire and had no bullets for it anyway].   The buck stumbled and I let fire again "BLAM!" (range of close to 75 yards at this point) with a load of 12 ga 00's, missing cleanly beyond a doubt.   However, I need not have worried as a few more bounds and down he went.   I had only to do the "throat cut- bleeding" thing and wait for the drivers to find me, while I decided just how I'd explain the wound (a single channel perfectly hit behind the left shoulder). Well, since the wound was through and through and there wasn't much chance of an in depth forensic investigation, I decided as how it was a "slug" wound (we were allowed Brennekes) and I stuck to that story throughout the day, despite the efforts of one sly and evil NCO to elicit a "confession" from me and disgrace me (and God knows what all other horrible punishments).   I stuck to my story and no one else seemed much interested in the details, my cover tale soon accepted as gospel.   Although this one most irritating person never really gave up, he failed in his efforts.

At noon I had the experience of watching the French Huntmaster/Driver build a small fire and with the assistance of his handy skillet from his pack and a few small blocks of limestone, he cooked up some delicious "blood" sausage. (I'll say one thing for France. Their food and cooking are simply the best going anywhere under any conditions. There is no one else in the world even close).

In the afternoon someone killed a nice Russian boar not too far from my afternoon position. I got a shot at a nice red fox (by now too intimidated to use anything but the buckshot) but the range was too far and all I succeeded at was sending a few buck shot down the trail in his general direction.   One of my compatriots down that way swore that he heard them go by him but you know how young hunters are prone to exaggerate!

That evening there was a sight in the camp area I shall never forget. There had been many nice roebucks harvested and they were placed, almost in a pile, in a central area there.   Several of our hosts (local Frenchmen) were in the process of processing the meat, placing each hunter's share in little piles. The successful hunter got the head, (for some reason, not the hide - I think the guides kept and sold those), the legs and a quarter.   The rest of the meat was divided among the non-successful hunters.   The beer was flowing like wine among the American hunters and the French "guides" were busily sorting things out when I noticed that there were several pieces of non-designated meat on the picnic-like table where I was slugging them down in the spirit of international and fraternal fellowship.   I asked my American associate who was assisting me in the celebration what those "spare fragments" of meat were.   "Oh, that's scraps for the dogs", he said.   "Oh, I see." sez I.   But my curiosity led me to pick up a piece and what do you suppose?   Our devious and treacherous guides were carefully discarding all of the tenderloins (it was twilight by this time), among the "dog scraps".   Well, I can tell you that I was outraged, but, in the spirit of diplomacy, wanting to spare everyone an unpleasant incident, I did not make a fuss, but rather, carefully picked up each and everyone of the discarded tenderloins and deposited them in the ample pockets of my field jacket, thereby avoiding an International incident and embarrassing the company at hand.   I'm sure that there was disappointment among the natives when the "dog scraps" were collected, but by that time, all of us were well back on our way to base and the safety of base housing and the tenderloins to the sanctuary of my refrigerator.   My but they were tasty!

In the interest of maintaining the illusion of my innocence, I have never revealed any of these things until this very moment. By now all statues of limitations on all transgressions have long run out but the discretion of all reading these revelations and secrets is sincerely appreciated.