Stranger than Fiction

TTH IS STOR YI S almost unbelievable and I h ave hesitated to tell it for fear readers will regard it as fiction.

In1 966, as a 19-year-old in the old Rhodesia, having left England a year earlier to fulfil my boyhood dream of becoming a hunter and game warden, I was at last in the bush. I was posted to Essexvale, just outside Bulawayo; it was hardly the wilderness I longed for, being farming and tribal trust lands, but a step in the right direction. I had a lot to learn about that beautiful country and about hunting and rifles. The district had a fair population of various antelope species and multiple terrain types.

I purchased a standard Mauser ’98 in 9x57mm. This gave root to a love for German calibres that eventually led to my owning a 10.75mm for buffalo control work. The Mauser proved an excellent bush rifle, hard-hitting with the ability to plough through the odd leaf or twig when the going got tough. With it I shot kudu, bushbuck, reedbuck, duiker, steenbuck and the odd impala.

I was soon sent to Fort Rixon, the next police district. The area had similar terrain and was home to the same antelope species plus leopard, hyena and tsessebe. However, due to the cost and intermittent availability of 9x57mm ammo, I now used my .303 most of the time, and in a fit of utter stupidity sold the 9x57.

In 1978, an old friend invited me to hunt in the Grahamstown district of the Eastern Cape. Eight hunters congregated at an old farmhouse for instructions. While I listened to Derek lay out the rules and describe the boundaries, I allowed my eyes to roam in appreciation of the other men’s rifles. One looked familiar. When Derek had finished, I walked over to the man with the familiar-looking rifle and asked him if I could examine it, explaining the possibility of it having once been mine. I wish I could say there was a nick on the stock or blemish on the action to distinguish it, but there wasn’t. However, the serial number, which almost matched my police force number, 727710, was the clincher. It was my old friend, twelve years and two thousand kilometres later!

The man had purchased it two years earlier from a gun shop in East London, and had no idea of its history. It was like bumping into an old friend in a pub. The rifle looked well cared-for and it felt good to handle it again. But no, he did not want to sell it. On that hunt I used a scoped Parker Hale .303 and bagged a reedbuck; the 9x57 man was unlucky, and my faithful old friend never got an opportunity to demonstrate its dependability.

Much later, I moved to Zululand and, in 2002, was on a group hunt in the Babanango district. I now had a beautiful English .303 Army & Navy. A mixed bag of rifles attended the hunt, one a Mauser ’98, and I smiled at its resemblance to my old 9mm. After being briefed we moved off in pairs and I ended up with Terry, the Mauser ’98 man.

It was a beautiful farm with sweeping valleys, thick acacias and steep, rugged hills that could really be called small mountains. We had the east side of the biggest hill. I had been drawn to the Mauser but did not want to appear over eager to handle another man’s rifle, so I let it be. After a pleasant walk but no sighting of game, we rested next to a massive granite boulder. Terry leant his rifle against the boulder and I walked over to it. Asking permission to handle it, I told him the story of my roaming rifle. He consented, so I immediately checked the serial number. Believe it or not, it was ‘my’ rifle!

“Sorry Chris, it’s not for sale. I love it.” Terry had bought it the previous year from a gun shop in Durban. Like me, he had a thing for Mausers and German calibres. Once again, the rifle had travelled, this time over 700 kilometres, and miraculously, we had met up again.

Terry suggested, “How about us swopping rifles for the hunt?” Entirely overcome by his generosity, I gladly held on to the Mauser. He picked up my .303 and I waved him through to continue with our hunt. It would be a lovely end to the story by saying I bagged a beautiful kudu with my beloved rifle, but that didn’t happen. We flushed a reedbuck and two grey duikers but we were after kudu, nothing else. At times the going was a bit tight, so I let Terry walk ahead. As a valley suddenly opened up, we hesitated. Two kudu bulls were standing half-in, half-out of the fringe bush at the far end, about 80m away. They had not seen us. Terry looked at me; he was in a better position to shoot, so I nodded. The bull’s horns measured 51ꞌꞌ.

I have since lost contact with Terry but have no doubt that the 9mm is safe and well-loved. Maybe I will get to meet it again one day.