CLICK

“Click.” Sound seemed hammer loud. In Roger’s mind, louder. Meant much more. Like curtain falling on the last act. Disbelief agonizingly flooded his brain as he slowly lowered the old bolt action 30.06, drew the sight down ever so carefully and slid behind the draw’s edge. He picked up his field glasses and studied again the Dall ram standing there on the narrow cliff, broadside, chest raised, perfect chance, shot of a lifetime. Roger’d worked hard in a lifetime of hunting, traveling in off-season from his pizza shop in the seaside resort of Brighton. Brought a Grizzly pelt back from Alaska, shot the last possible day as snow had reached knee-high and thermometers hovered well below freezing. Lion and other big game from Africa. Had several disappointments, a few nightmares as well over his lifetime. The worst flashed back as he laid there. One he could never put to rest.

He’d saved this trip. Kept it tucked it away in the corner of his mind for years. Trip he’d hoped to do as a tribute to his uncle who’d raised him since late childhood when his parents had drowned. Uncle in his late years had given him the old gun, blessed over time with great hunting stories and trips with his lifelong companions.

Minutes ached by as he watched the ram pick its way up the cliff and disappear behind the massive cleft as the ram had done the previous morning. He’d realized the sound of that click. Knew it wasn’t the shell. Roger hand loaded his shells. Hand loaded for all his varied collection of guns. No, this was not the shell. This was the firing pin. A broken part in another gun. In that spreading light the memories came back. Memories he’d endured long years at trying to stuff back in that purple-black chasm where nightmares roamed and sleep was feared.

Roger, slow, resolute, lifted the bolt from its notch, pulled it up and back. Shell jacked into the air but he didn’t reach out to catch it in midair as he so often did. Let it lie amongst the shale, staring back. Roger thought if the shell could speak, words would be, “I've done my part. What happened?” This time there’d be no questions. No beating himself up. No “why me?” This time was different. This time life and death, his life, wasn’t in the balance.

That night could have been a week ago. Memories still as keen, stark. Hands cold, bitter cold. Stiff, near frozen. Gloves, a pair his aunt had sent him, weren’t enough. Cold in that Korean winter had cut through to their bones. Another screw-up. Winter gear hadn’t arrived by the time the North Koreans came screaming through Lo-San ravine toward the supply-dump he and a battalion of his National Guard outfit were guarding that night. Hunkered down in foxholes scraped from frozen mud, a nightmare exhumed from hell descended. No warning. Forward sentries killed or mortally wounded.

He’d fired the WWII issue M-1 carbine as fast as he could replace the oversize clips. Barrel was hot to the touch but he dared not hold it. Enemies were everywhere. Like apparitions from the frozen ground. Shoot one, another would take his place. He and his foxhole mate, Roland, had desperately held their position. Ammunition was disappearing fast as he heard shouts to his left for more.

Roger shot two coming straight on, caught movement to his right and swinging over his mate's head sighted a spread of four. Pulled the carbine on one, fired, then the second, the third, fourth coming fast, bayonet aimed down. Roger pulled the trigger. Nothing. Pulled again. Nothing. Korean tripped as he lunged at Roger, slipped then tried to roll as his bayonet caught Roland below his right ear driving upward. Roland screamed as Roger grabbed for his own bayonet, bringing it down hard against the back of the North Korean, killing him instantly.

On his feet now, Roger walked back to small plateau where the horses were tethered and the guide waited. Nothing was said. Guide understood disappointment. Knew when silence was best. They mounted, pointed the horses in the direction of camp and slowly made their way back through the hills.

At the campsite, Roger sat after accepting a cup of freshly made coffee. He’d brought a spare gun. There in the tent. Thought about getting it out. Perhaps staying another day. But he knew that he wouldn’t. No, this trip was about something more than the Ram. Ram would live, Roger would live. His uncle’s gun would hang on the wall, perhaps by itself, Roger thought. When he looked at the old 30.06 he would remember this day, know he had survived Korea for a reason much larger than himself.

• R E C I P E •

I could probably have fish for dinner three out of five days a week, perhaps more, tucking it in as a secondary in other recipes. Other two, would have to be pasta. Spanish have a great way with seafood, catching it hundreds of years of antiquity ago off our own coast of Maine. This recipe comes from a paperback found at one of Florida’s ubiquitous yard sales, published in 1969, “Authentic Spanish Cooking,” with some truly tantalizing ideas.

Filetes de Lenguado en Vino Blanco
(Flounder Filets in White Wine)
1-1/2 lbs. flounder filets
Qtr. lb. sliced mushrooms
1 c. dry white wine
2 egg yolks
Salt and pepper to taste
Half c. cream
2 T. butter
1 T. chopped parsley
finely chopped shallot

Spread filets in a shallow baking dish. Season with salt and pepper, dot with butter. Add wine, shallots and mushrooms. Bake in moderate oven (350 deg.) 20 minutes. Drain liquid from baking pan and simmer it down to about one cup (I use a small Teflon frying pan.) Mix the egg yolks with the cream and stir carefully into the slightly cooled fish stock. Add parsley, pour sauce over flounder and glaze it briefly under a hot broiler. Serves 4.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur