‘Do you want help in breaking more ice and getting the decoys out?’
‘No!’ The guide said and shoved the boat out savagely into the thin ice, which cracked and ripped as the boat pulled up onto it. The guide splashed the oar into the ice and then started tossing the decoys, two at a time into the murky water.
He’s in a beautiful mood, I thought, little mind on broad shoulders. I could not believe how I had worked like a mule coming out here and this goof ball isn’t prepared. What is bothering him? After all, this is what he does for a living, isn’t it…maybe he is gay and I have paid him no mind?
As these thoughts went through my mind, I arranged the shooting stool to give maximum range to swing the gun from left to right. Next, I opened a fresh box of shells, filled my pockets, and dumped another box into the shell bag so all I would have to do would be to reach in easily without dropping the shells into the bottom of the barrel, which I could not reach.
In front of me, the lagoon lay glazed from the ice and the darkness, which crept beneath it in the first light while the black boat with the tall heavily built guide smashed the oar at the ice and tossed out the wooden decoys as though he was ridding himself of something obscene.
It was getting lighter by the moment and I could see the low line of the near point across the lagoon and beyond the point where I knew two other shooters were posted. Far beyond this point, lay the marsh, and then it was on to the sea.
I loaded both guns and once again checked the position of the boat while placing the colorful Mallard decoys someone had carved with great love and attention to the finite detail, making one wonder why so much care? Did they really think the big birds would know the difference if one feather was out of place. Now it would be another kettle of fish if it were women we were placing to attract another woman…to lure them into our sights. They would know the difference; legend has it, women dress for other women. It must be true because all men, except the weirdo’s who love women’s feet, could care less if the toes were painted.
Then the moment I was waiting for began to happen. From behind me, faint at first, I heard the incoming whisper of the wings. I crouched, took hold of my right hand gun…and looked up from under the rim of the barrel. I then stood to shoot two ducks, dropping down; wings set to break, like the flaps of a bomber, coming down dark in the gray dim sky with a hint of red on the horizon, slanting toward the decoys parked on the lagoon.
My head was low. I swung the gun on a long slant. Down, through my right eye I could see the second duck, then without looking at the result of my shot, I raised the shotgun smoothly, up, up, ahead and to the left of the other duck, which was climbing to the left, and as I pulled the trigger, I saw the bird fold. I could see as well the boat with the guide was far to my right and out of the line of fire. It was as perfect a double shot as I had ever seen or made. I had done so with complete consideration and respect for the position of the guide and I felt great as I reloaded my shotgun.
“Listen.” The guide yelled from the boat. “Don’t ever shoot toward this boat again, ass hole!”
“I have had all your attitude and miserable way you have handled this job, and I demand you get your ass over here and take me back to camp.” I commanded in no uncertain terms.
“It is more than Ok with me, I’ve had all of you I can take and I’m not happy guiding someone who shoots at the guide.”
“Listen, you bastard, I kill for a living, if I had wanted to kill you, I would have killed you.” By now, the large black boat was at the barrel in which I stood and I caught its bow. I chose to lay my shell bag on the floor of the boat and then to carefully check the safety on the guns. Next, I leaned them against the shell bag. I took the shooting stool from the bottom barrel, pushed it with all my power from my chest (as though I was bench-pressing the weight of a child), and flung it toward the ugly guide. The action caught him off guard as he was reaching for the shotgun. He had no time to catch the stool and it hit him square across the bridge of the nose. The guide yelled out in pain, lost his balance and pitched into the black water, breaking the ice as he splashed while attempting to grab hold of the side of the boat. But his thrashing from the effort and heavy clothing drug him down into the deep causing the wake to push the boat further away.
By now, I had seized the side of the boat were I stood in the shooting barrel and I easily swung my leg over the side and into the boat, pulling my right leg in behind me. I turned and peered into the pitch-black water and could see nothing but the churning of the water. I grabbed one of the oars, flashed the bright beam of the flashlight were the guide had gone into the water. There was no sight of the guide, only the stillness of the murky deep, ice cold of the water with the decoys heads bobbing to and fro as if to point out the general direction of were the guide had gone down.
Across the bay, the other hunters had not yet suspected there was a problem in the last boat. I picked up one of the shotguns, empting its chamber into the still morning air, and began to call out loudly, “Help! Help! Help!” Then I used my flashlight to signal the international code for help, SOS, in the hope one of the hunters would see it and understand the code.
I was in luck, both of the boats fired up the small engines took flight, the sound of the whining engines gave comfort as they made their way toward me hastily, arriving in a matter of minutes.
“What is the matter Colonel? Where is Sed Maze?”
“He lost his balance and fell into the water.” I replied. All three boat occupants began to frantically skim the frozen water, breaking the ice with the oars but careful so as not to further injure the fallen guide. The water was even murkier and there was no sign of the guide or his body or the dog Heinz.
We had now spent more than twenty minutes looking for the body and the sun began to make its way into the center of the eastern sky amid a color scheme that could only be described as awesome. The guide in the first boat suggested I return to the dock and report the accident since I was the only witness to the accident…and Heinz could not speak wherever he was.
It took me half and hour to get back to the dock, another fifteen minutes to reach someone at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who promised an officer would be along shortly to investigate. I hitched a ride to the camp to make a personal phone call.
What Is a Command
In all of my adult life, I had never dreamed ... I could be punished for following an order. The soldier’s first obligation in response to command. Regardless of the fact, I was a career officer in the military of a world power. The order to kill, the prerogative of those on the moral high ground with no meaningful role for those we kill. The offense, well, they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It had been a long day and now I reclined in my room with a bucket of ice and a bottle of Scotch whiskey against the orders of my legal counsel. I was in dire need of something to calm my nerves and help me sleep. And sleep I would, in bed before revelry, I began to dream…it was in color with a cast of characters you might imagine for a Broadway musical, like The Music Man. Except in my dream I am the only character who isn’t animated. The judge is played by a reconstituted version of Frankenstein, wearing a much too small black robe, which showed the electrodes in the side of the neck. The prosecutor is a Danny DeVito jackal voiced character who laughs after each and every sentence. The jury is comprised of eleven black women and a single Hispanic male. The defense counsel is a giant rooster, the court reporter a weasel and the bailiff an ape who carries a bunch of bananas beneath his long arm.
The bailiff intones…” hear ye, hear ye, all rise for the honorable John Frankenstein” Of course we all stand as the judge makes his way to the stand and finds his chair, located high above
