THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
In mid winter of 1968, as a military game warden I had worked out a productive Saturday morning routine. At first light a pilot and I would take off from Augusta Airfield in a small two-man canvas wing Army airplane. We called it TWA, short for “Tinny Wine Airlines”. I would have the pilot fly over the State Highways #1 and #25. Those roads defined the borders of the Fort Gordon GA. military Reservation. From the air I could observe and note on my map the perimeter, along with the description and exact location of any parked vehicles. Returning shortly afterwards, by road in my military vehicle, I would check hunters for their hunting license and occasionally I would arrest notorious poachers who were selling deer on the black market.
I pulled in behind a parked pickup truck and noted the tag number. I also noticed an empty 30-06 rifle shell box laying on the rear seat. There was no identifying post bumper decal on the vehicle and no hunter identification license stub displayed in the windshield. Experience had taught me that a poacher was not going to return to the vehicle with my vehicle in sight. I knew, I had to go in. I radioed the Provost Marshal’s office stating my location, along with the vehicle description and plate number, but I didn’t wait for acknowledgment.
I checked the chamber and magazine of my Army issued Colt 45 model # 1911 sidearm. I found and followed boot tracks down a muddy firebreak for a short distance to the spot where the tracks became invisible as they entered a pine thicket. The tall pine trees blocked all sunlight and the honeysuckle below limited foot travel to the well-defined deer trails. Stalking was silent while gliding along in the drizzling rain on moist pine needles. The uplifting fog drifted on a gentile breeze creating eerie shadows that lurked everywhere. I was confident that I would soon find a poacher that morning.
As if it appeared out of nowhere, and oblivious to my presence, there sat a faceless figure on a short stump, not even four feet from where I stood. A poncho was draped over the head and flowed over the shoulders touching the ground on either side.
Immediately, I was startled to hear my voice say, “YOU ARE TRESPASSING ON FEDERAL MILITARY PROPERTY, DO YOU HAVE A PERMIT”? In the blink of an eye and as if the figure was seated on a swivel, it spun ninety degrees to face me and I felt the cold steel of the 30-06 muzzle press into my trembling stomach.
The far away look in his eye told me that yes, a Georgia boy would indeed kill me for the price of a deer. With no options, my side arm still snapped firmly in its holster, I backed away. I backed away until I could see him no more. Only then did I make a swift sprint for the radio in my parked vehicle. The radio was useless. The antenna was broken off even with the roof of the Ford Bronco.
The truck had been reported as stolen, two days prior to the incident. The plates were also stolen. My nagging, but never to be answered question is, was the broken antenna a quiescence, or did the poacher have an unseen partner in crime?
That is what makes things go, “BUMP”, in the night.
SP-5 James M. Cripps
Game Warden
US Army, 1967-1969
VA THE REDNECK WAY, YOU DON'T HAVE TO GO IT ALONE! 