Harvest cut and run

Graham Mikel finds there is no sport more enjoyable than pursuing bolting rabbits in the fields in the wake of the tractor and binder

The sound of the tractor and binder had been creeping through my window during the morning — a purring, almost a seductive, sound. The mere noise of it urged me to be away with the gun, down beside the oat field where Farmer Jones was making his first cut of the year. However, I thought, these oats do not hold many rabbits — well, not enough to justify my leaving the daily task. So I sat on until it was time for lunch.

Up at The Cart and Horses for my preprandial pint, Harry Edlin, the landlord, said: “Better get your gun down on old Jones’ bit.” But I shook my head and replied that these oats would not hold many rabbits. Instead, as soon as the meal was over, I took the springer for a walk round the fields, hoping to find a pigeon or two, or a young rabbit sitting out.

“Hullo,” said my wife, when I returned. “Stan Mcgechan ( Jones’ hand) has been up and said that Mr Jones asked him to tell you that there are a lot of rabbits in the oats they’re cutting. They’re starting again at two o’clock.” Well, it was past 2pm then and I could hear the noise of the binder once more.

I passed up the bank through a gap in the hedge, walked along the edge of a rather scabby bit of late wheat and reached the field they were cutting. The gun had been loaded on the way up, of course, but the few pigeon that clattered out of the elms and oaks were well beyond range of the No 7s in the breech.

As I walked down through the sheaves towards the circling binder, I took my cartridges out as a gesture of my own acknowledgement to the farmer, for I will never shoot unless the owner or tenant knows that I am

moment and fired. Then it ran back towards the corn and the obstacle of the men with dogs saved me all temptation of wasting another barrel on it. Anyway, I was quite content to see it back in that ever-narrowing area of cover.

My next shot came a minute later, when a rabbit bolted from the end of the corn that I should have been watching. Unfortunately, the earlier rabbit had left me out of position and it was the shout of Mr Jones on the binder that made me realise something was going on.

Arms waving

Then I saw the rabbit — a good one — running hard up the field, heard the shout of Mr Jones — “Run, Eric!” — saw Eric (another hand) begin running up the hedge along which he was returning from lunch and began running myself.

That rabbit, hoping to reach the bury in the hedge, turned back to the standing oats as it noticed Eric, swerved as it saw me, turned back again as it heard the cries of Mr Jones and saw his arms waving, and bolted for the hedge again. At 40 yards, I fired and hit it, but it was one of

“It was not a big bag for harvest time, but it might well have been twice as large”

those unfortunate back-end shots, and it turned and came back, slightly diagonally at full pelt. It ran within a yard of my foot, which kicked out to intercept it, and turned over neatly to my second shot when it had gone about 30 yards from me.

The slight pause that followed allowed Eric to take up Mr Jones’ gun and the remaining oats were covered by one of us at each end, some 80 yards apart and separated by a strip of cover that was 10ft wide at my end and 40ft wide at the other.

The next rabbit tried to crawl out on my side, looking for all the world like a stoat or part of a big, black snake. My slight movement turned it back into the oats. Along came the binder and I could see the movement of rabbits in the oats — stems waving gently as they moved about.

The next rabbit I fired at bolted quite close to me and offered an easy shot until that very moment when I was about to fire, then it reached the sheaves and weaved a strange, uneven course through them. I fired once and missed, ran a few yards, stopped, fired again and saw the animal falter. So I ran in, only to see it blunder up and move slowly towards the wood. Getting to within about 40 yards of it, I fired another shot, which missed as the rabbit turned sharply along the side of a copse, offering

Eric a very easy shot, but neither that nor his second barrel managed to stop it before it disappeared into the wilderness of that wood. We would have to bring the dogs along later.

All thoughts of rabbits were interrupted by a stentorian shout and I turned to see two alsatians and one boxer hunting joyously through that small patch of oats that remained.

Booming voice

Mr Jones had stopped the tractor and was shouting in a voice that could be heard across the valley: “Whose dogs are they? Take those dogs away.” The dogs were called in and their owners retreated with them to the sanctuary of some private property several hundred yards away from the standing oats.

Then we began again with a shot here and a shot there until the last small patch was left and Mr Jones took up his own gun while Eric and Stan walked down through the oats “shooshing”. A rabbit came to me and was missed with the first barrel, but was killed with the second. Another came to me, but dodged back before I could fire. Then it broke out near the farmer and, some 25 yards away among the sheaves, Stan bowled it over — the only shot he had that day.

Well, you know how it is at shoots of this sort. I must have fired between 12 and 15 cartridges in order to kill four rabbits. With what Stan and Eric picked-up, we had eight altogether. It was not a big bag for harvest time, but it might well have been twice as large seeing that some 30 rabbits or more bolted from the last acre of oats. And it all took place within 30 minutes.

You may easily obtain faster and finer shooting, but I doubt you will get anything more enjoyable than a brief period spent in the harvest fields towards the end of what may even be an indifferent cut. I have seen more than 200 rabbits killed out of 20 acres of wheat, but this was only the remnant of a field of oats. I have seen as many as a dozen Guns round a field and many more boys and men, with sticks and dogs. But on this occasion there were only two Guns and two men working the tractor and binder.

When I mentioned the afternoon to Joe, the gardener, that evening, he said: “I heard 27 shots.” I think we may have fired 27 cartridges between us, but what does it matter? I knew perfectly well that I was shooting badly and I shall have to do something about that next time.

This article was first published in the 23 August 1952 issue of Shooting Times.

“The sound of the tractor and binder was creeping through my window — a purring, seductive sound”

“The rabbit broke out near the farmer, 25 yards away, and Stan bowled it over — the only shot he had”