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The PTA Hunt
Chapter 1...Landfall
September, 1970. Our unit had been pulled out of Vietnam by
Presidential decree. The war was
still not over and, so, many of us felt that to leave before the
job was done was, in a word, simply
the wrong thing to do. But Marines follow orders and so we found
ourselves arriving on the island
of Oahu in the state of Hawaii.
Many of us had never been to Hawaii. And, except for a short
6-hour stopover 9 months earlier to
refuel our 747 on the way back over to Danang, I had never been
there either. But here we were,
joined to the only Brigade in the Marine Corps; the Marine First
Brigade on the Marine Air Base
at Kaneohe Bay, Hawaii (leeward side of Oahu island.) We were told
our stay would be
temporary, just long enough for the Brigade to absorb those MOS's
they needed and then the
rest of us would be ordered stateside.
Pickles, Chopper, Dracula and I left the island all within a week.
I to the east coast for additional
professional training, the others to the four winds. So long
Hawaii I thought. It had been a nice
idea....we'd not even gotten off base while there. Little did I
know.
While attending a high level Navy school on the east coast, I was
called to the Marine Liaison
Officers office a week before course completion and graduation. I
was told that my former C.O.
had recommended that I be returned to Hawaii for a 3-year tour of
duty, dependent on my
academic achievement at the school. I was running head-to-toe with
another Marine for the top
place. At worst, I would come in second in a class of some 40+
sailors and marines. It looked
sure enough that I was headed back to Hawaii.
Orders to Hawaii followed a few days later. My wife was pregnant
at the time and we'd just bought
a 1970 MGB. So, the day after graduation, we loaded up the car and
headed into the setting sun.
Within a week we were on Oahu, stationed at Kaneohe Bay. And it
was then that I found out
about the Kaneohe Bay Rod and Gun Club...and the PTA.
And thats how it came to be. I found out about the KBR&GC
("The Club", for short)through a
newly found acquaintance and the next thing I know, I'm sitting in
a classroom on the top floor of
the Brigade Command building at 7PM one night. (The Club met there
to conduct its business)
The Club had over 70 active members. There was a very high
attrition rate. Meaning many joined
and many dropped out soon thereafter. It was never explained to me
"why". I was simply told
"you can decide for yourself after a few hunts". I
simply could not figure why a Marine would drop
his membership. Dues were not the problem. It cost nothing to join
or belong. Hunting slots were
not the problem. I was told that rarely does a planned hunt ever
fill up. Why, I wondered. ...after a
few hunts. Um. What did "hunts" have to do with it? I
let the subject drop from my mind without
further contemplation.
An "arrangement" had been developed between the Army
Command on the big island of Hawaii
and the Marine Command onboard Kaneohe Bay. It was a mutually
beneficial arrangement. The
Army maintained and used the saddle between two relatively quiet
although not extinct volcanos
on Hawaii for training purposes. This area was known as the PTA,
short for the Pohakaloa
Training Area. It was huge. And it was rugged. Volcanic rock was
the "deck" and sheer cliffs rose
straight up for hundreds of feet. The Army, over the years, had
succeeded in "leveling" some of
the terrain through tank maneuvers and aerial bombardment but
still, the area was no mans land.
Captain Smith or someone (hell, I didn't care who) had attempted to
colonize the
islands in the 1800's and bring Christianity to the "heathens
that lived here". His
party brought with them pigs, goats, sheep, and chickens when they
landed on the
big island. They started a town that was later named Hilo. A
hurricane had hit the
town some years after Smiths party had landed and blew down all the
fences that
had been erected to contain the animals. Hence, a lot of pig, goat,
and sheep
escaped into the high lands and into the PTA. Not having any
natural predators,
and an abundant habitat, they thrived. Eventually the pigs, goat,
and sheep
numbered in the thousands.
And these feral animals were a big problem for the Army whenever it
would conduct maneuvers.
Tanks were stopped by hundreds of animals running all around. The
stench of decaying animal
flesh affected the troops and Army medical authorities had come
close on several occasions to
closing down the PTA maneuvers because of fear of health concerns.
The Army had to get the
feral populations under some sort of control.
So, the deal was simple: fly your marines over on Thursday. Let them hunt and
take what they
could on Friday and Saturday. Fly them back Sunday. And that was
the cornerstone feature of The Club. There was a Marine helicopter
squadron stationed at Kaneohe Bay. It's
C.O. was brought into the picture and an agreement struck to fly The Club's members over to Hawaii on a CH53
Sea Stallion. Then, pick them up on Sunday and
bring them back to Oahu and Kaneohe Bay.
With this backdrop, The Club made runs to the big island twice monthly. Only
Club members
could go, and any game taken could either be brought back, or, given to the
locals on Hawaii
near Hilo. And all this brings me to my very first hunt with The Club.
First Hunt in the PTA
Thursday, 7PM: I am standing on the tarmac with my hunting
equipment and my M70
Winchester in .270WIN caliber (yeh, I am partial to the .270WIN).
I remember there was a slight
rain blowing across the runway ramp. I've never been on the big
island, never seen a "volcano
meadow" as its referred to, but want to be prepared for
anything.
So, I have a 60 pound field pack made up and ready to go. Because
we are only going to be gone
two days, I take only one pair of boots and one change of
clothing. I am told that we will be
sleeping in the Armies quonset hunts up in the PTA so I need not
worry about that issue.
The Club has, as I found out much later, its own
"initiation" for new members. And rank is not
protector. Membership includes marines from Colonel on down to
buck private. Only one will be in
charge though for this trip and he is the Hunt Master. Such
designation comes not because of
rank, but because of experience in the PTA. A lot of experience.
And the experience starts on
the tar mack at Kaneohe Bay. The "initiation" also
starts on the tar mack beginning with the
application of the "mushroom theory". In other words,
fed only s*it and kept in the dark as much
as possible. Fun and games boys. Let them begin
The Hunt Master approaches me on the tar mack and looks down at my
pack and then at me. He
asks me if I think I've forgotten anything. I say, "nope. But
if I have, I'll survive through it." He nods
a little and walks away, saying something I can't quite discern. I
don't know his rank for I am still
the newest member in The Club. But, as was briefed to me the
previous week when this hunt was
being planned out, rank does not count on these hunts.
I look down at my pack, wondering what the Hunt Master saw or did
not see that caused him to
mutter something low. I shrug my shoulders.
I hear a whistle off in the distance and look across the tar mack
and see the member-hunters
grab their gear and head to the ramp of the Sea Stallion. I catch
up with my gear and find that I
am last in line. I look at what each of the other hunters are
taking and it looks like I am a tad
over-packed. Oh well, better to have too much than not enough.
After all, this ain't a combat
patrol.
I climb aboard the Sea Stallion and soon we are airborne and
heading east by southeast towards
the big island of Hawaii. From everything I've been told and what
I've been able to learn, this
should be a fruitful hunt. I am looking forward to it. I am in
great physical condition, a
battle-hardened marine, and I am quite at home in the wild.
Arriving at the airstrip at Hilo, we dismount the aircraft. All
total, there are more than two dozen of
us. I noticed that eight Marines have left their gear and are
walking fast towards the main building.
As I look around it comes to my attention that I am the only one
wearing cammo of any sort. I am
the only one wearing hunter orange. I am the only one wearing
anything that resembles a
respectable hunting garb. All the others are wearing old, torn
bluejeans, cutoffs, sweat bands
around their foreheads and several have heavy wrappings around
their boots. Hell, they look like a
bunch of riffraff. And surely, one amongst them is a senior
ranking officer to boot. But they do
look comfortable.
Within a matter of minutes the eight Marines I'd seen darting for
the main building return but this
time they are driving 4-wheel vehicles. Each hunter takes his gear
to a vehicle and loads up. In
short time, all eight off road vehicles are loaded to the max and
we begin the long drive up into the
PTA and our base camp in the Army quonset huts. The drive is about
90 minutes and the altitude
is definately not sea-level. In fact, there are patches of snow on
the ground near the end of our
travel, that part where the road turns to dirt, then to mud, then
to volcanic ash and rock.
Thursday, 11 PM Arriving at the quonset hut that has been set
aside for us, the Hunt Master
assigns the bunks. This is where I find my first mistake. I did
not bring a blanket roll. Only my
issue 100 percent olive-drab military blanket. I am the only one
without a blanket roll. No one told
me what I should have brought and when I asked around during the
previous week, I was told to
"bring whatever you are comfortable with. But remember, this
IS Hawaii". But THIS was more like
the Rockies in late summer. And that night I nearly froze to
death, even with two sets of clothing
on, and the blanket. The adventure had begun. I had no idea of
just how much of an adventure
this was going to be for me.
End of Chapter 1
Chapter 2...The Brass Ring
Friday, 03:30: Reveille. The Hunt Master (called "HUMA"
– pronounced who-maw) was struting up
and down the middle of the quonset hut, shaking bunks to get
everyone moving.
"Time is a'wasting m'friends." called out HUMA.
"Breakfast won't wait on you. You best haul your
asses outta the rack. C'mon...move it!." Every time he passed
the large garbage can in the center
of the hut, he'd slap it a few times with a broom handle.
Who does he think he is, some gawdammed Drill Instructor? I asked
myself. Just who the hell is
this HUMA fella anyway? Everyone seems to go along with anything
he says, no questions
asked.
It was cold!. No one wanted to leave the warmth of their sleeping bags.
The two small kerosene
heaters in the hut had been turned off at mid-night, to prevent
the possibility of toxic gases during
the night. Besides, in a warm sleeping roll, the heaters weren't
really needed to sleep. Except for
one member of the hunting party and that member was me. What was
it that I had been told?
...after all, this IS Hawaii. Right! And it NEVER rains on the
rifle range.....!!
Slowly, very slowly, I managed to stiffly roll out of my bunk,
fully clothed...twice. I found it quite
difficult to stand up. Every joint in my body felt as if it had
been frozen-in-place. And my bladder
was ready above the "F" mark. As I began moving around,
my bladder reminded me that there are
more important things than freezing to death and that I had
precious little time left to
acknowledge that fact.
I quickly ran outside and into the bitter-cold darkness to relieve
myself. As I fumbled to prepare to
relieve myself, the cold really hit me.
Finally, I was relieving myself and in so doing, thought about how
urinating can actually make a
person feel MORE cold! With fingers - and a certain
"other" part - close to becoming frost-bitten, I
tried to get "myself" back into my trousers, but,
without the sense of touch, both my fingers and
my "appendage" can't tell reality from fiction.
Thinking I am put all together, I hurried back into the relative warmth
of the sleeping hut only to
find that I was still dangling in public. Moreover, my bladder was
still in the process of emptying
itself. Embarassed, I hurried back outside again, followed by the
thundering applause and
laughter of my fellow hunters inside...I won't be without a
sleeping bag tonight ! I tell myself.
Putting my hands in my pockets to keep them somewhat warm and
therefore sensitive to touch, I
stood, shivering and with teeth chattering, waiting for nature
concluded her business.
I don't care what part of me gets frost-bitten; I am NOT going back in
there until I am properly
done with the business at hand.
Finally, back inside the quonset hut, I pulled my pack to the
floor and started rummaging through
it, looking for my toothbrush and paste.
"Bill..." I turned away from my pack to see HUMA
standing over me.
"You are the newest member in our club so you get the job of
breakfast cleanup. Gotta pay your
dues son. Come with me." HUMA commanded in an even but
non-threatening voice as he turned
and headed for the door of the quonset hut.
Breakfast? He only said 'breakfast'...Who cleans up for the OTHER
meals then? I AM NOT
GONNA ASK.
With toothpaste - but no brush - in hand, I stumbled after HUMA
and into the cold darkness
outside.....again! Damned, I ain't even thawed out yet and here I
am, in the freezing outdoors - for
the second time in 10 minutes..
Just before hitting the sack last
night, I'd asked around to see if I could learn
something about our Hunt Master. Lanky,
lean, and loose, our HUMA is said to hail from the mountains of West Virginia.
His deep accent convinces me that he must
have been at least 12 years old or more before he first wore
shoes. But his very bright green eyes miss nothing. They are constantly darting
around. I've also learned that he is a thrice-awarded purple heart recipient;
twice-wounded during the Korean War and once during his two tours in the 'nam.
No one would tell me his rank, keeping accord with the unspoken law of the
club.
But from his leathered face, short-cropped graying hair, and the way he carried
himself, I judged him to be either a salty old First Sergeant or Sergeant
Major. Or, a
Chief Warrant Officer.
He stands about six foot even and I'd say he weighs in right at 200 pounds.
Every
inch pure muscle from what I can tell. He walks like an indian, toes-first, his
large
feet turned turned slightly inward. For some odd reason, it seems to me that
this is
natural for this man. I did find out
that he holds an 03 MOS, meaning he's in the
infantry field and that "...he used to work with Carlos".
Carlos Hathcock! A legend in his own time. ichi bon Marine Corps sniper.
Well, that had summed it up in a nutshell for me. I've got
two rockers under my
chevrons myself. As a Gunnery Sergeant, I've walked the walk...and more,
several
times. I feel an erry but common bond
with this Marine!
I follow HUMA outside the quonset hut. I had not found my toothbrush and my
mouth tastes as if
a thousand russian foot-soldiers had trampled through it, crapping on each
molar. I stuff the tube
of toothpaste away into a side pocket on my jungle-fatigues reminding myself to
get my
toothbrush before leaving camp. I'd had my jaw shattered in 'nam and my teeth -
what remained of
them - required a lot of TLC.
Outside, the air is much colder than I'd expected and was blowing at least 15
mph across the
saddle from the Northwest. The overhead sky is filled with stars. And, although
there is no moon,
one could see clearly to move about.
The smell of frying bacon and hot coffee makes my empty stomach roll over twice
and causes
me to fully awaken. From inside, I heard someone address HUMA as "His
Majesty" and had
instantly drawn several not-so-friendly verbal replies. HUMA looked at me and
simply smiled,
seemingly ignoring the assault on his position. He handed me a brass ring that
was about nine
inches in diameter. It had been polished by someone to that high luster that
only militarily-shined
brass could have. It resembled a woman's ear-ring only quite a bit larger. And
it weighed a lot
more as well, about three pounds I would guess.
"Whats this for?" I asked rather uncertain if I should even ask. I
noticed that the ring had a
fastener that allowed for it to be opened
and closed. What in the hell is this thing for?
"You might find it useful sometime during the day. Keep it on your person
at all times. Give it to
no one else. I will take it back
tonight." said HUMA with a barely discernible smile in his eyes.
We walk around to the side of the
quonset hut to where three kerosene stoves are burning away,
each one is mounted on the side of a 55
gallon galvanized garbage can filled with water. The
stoves "heating element" extends down into the can where
it can heat the water which by now is
boiling away in all three cans. There is an additional garbage can
- without a heater or water - set
a few feet away from these three. This fourth garbage can is for
food scraps.
Each individual club member is responsible for washing his own
mess-kit and eating utensils.
Any food leftovers are dumped into the first garbage can, then
dips the mess-kit with eating
utensils is dipped into the boiling soapy water in the second
garbage can. The last two garbage
cans are used to rinse the soapy water off, and to aid in
sterilization of the mess-kits
respectively.
"Brick..." HUMA calls out as he approaches a club member
dressed in a long apron over which
he is wearing an open fleece-lined leather jacket.
"Bill here is your cleanup man." HUMA takes me by the
arm and pulls me up alongside of him.
"G'mawnin' Bill" says Brick as he extends his right hand
in a gesture of friendship.
"Good morning yourself." I say as I take his hand.
"Brick will show you the ropes Bill." HUMA says as he
turns to leave. "When you're done, find
T-man. You will be on his team today."
Brick motions me to follow him. We walk to a slightly smaller
quonset hut. One key to this reefer
had been entrusted to the Kaneohe Bay Rod and Gun Club by the US
Army and it was this key
that Brick now pulled from inside his apron. Brick unlocks the hut
and we stepped inside.
Brick hits the light switch on the wall. The inside of the hut is
even colder than the air outside.
Two rows of meat hooks traverse the length of the hut. The Army
had configured this quonset hut
as a walk-in reefer and we were permitted to use it as such during
our time in the PTA. Game
was field dressed and hung here until its time to leave the PTA.
.The cook also stored the clubs
food perishables for the hunt.
"This heres where the game will be hung. You don't have
anything to do 'bout that. " says Brick.
"Here is our food supplies" says Brick pointing to the
corner just inside and left of the door.
"We get most from the commissary at K-bay. The rest we buy
out in town." he says.
"Who pays for all this " I ask, looking at the massive
storage of supplies.
"The club does. We hold various events throughout the year to
raise the money. Our deep-sea
fishing raises the most." Brick says as he motions me
outside. He locks the door and stows the
key on his person and we return to the "kitchen" that
Brick as set up outside our sleeping hut.
Brick is one of a few, select club members who volunteer to cook
during a hunt. No money is
paid for cooking services, and because of the very early
wakeup, cooks rarely hunt, preferring
to
catch up on sleep while everyone else is hunting. But, the cook's
compensation comes by way of
getting first pick of meat from the first four kills brought into
camp. Some cooks avail themselves
of this compensation while others do not. According to club
by-laws, the cook only prepares two
meals; breakfast and supper. Cleanup of the cooking utensils is
tasked to another club member.
Lunch is an individual responsibility, with food taken from the
breakfast table. Breakfast cooking
does not end until everyone tells the cook he has had his
fill...to include whatever is to be taken
for lunch.
"Bill, " Brick says. "Breakfast is setup over
there. You might want to eat now because it will go in
a hurry." Brick points to a long table.
"Be sure to take what you want for lunch." Brick calls
as I walk over to the eight-foot long table
full of food. It must have taken 2 or 3 hours to prepare all this!
I think to myself.
Ham steaks, sausage links, flapjacks, scrambled eggs, fried
potatoes, and grits fill the table. Hot
coffee is in a large 6-gallon coffee urn at the end of the table.
I take out my mess-kit and begin to
fill it.
Our mess-kits are the old World War II/Korean War vintage. They
are two aluminum "plates" with
a handle that folds up to hold all together. A knife, fork, and
spoon with an elongated hole in the
end of the handles accompany each "kit". The mess-kits
handle slide through the holes in the
utensils for washing. Then, the utensils are stored inside the
aluminum plates and secured by the
folding handle. The handle is also used to "brace" the
two plates together during serving and
eating.
The smell of the food is enticing and I start at the far left and
begin working my way down the
table to the coffee pot on the far right end. Just before the
coffee pot is a large pan of grits. These
are the only "vittles" I do not take. I remember Parris
Island even on this morning all too well. The
thought of eating grits almost renders my appetite null and void.
But its been a long time since I'd
eaten.
Brick has earned his take, no doubt. The chow was terrific and I
go back for another serving. A
final canteen cup of hot, black coffee and I am ready to face all
sorts of barbarians and other four
legged critters this fine day. While I am busy
scrubbing cooking pots and other food preparation
utensils, the rest of the club is busy preparing for the days hunt.
Unknowing to me, one of the
members of my 4-man hunting team is preparing my rifle and laying
out the necessary gear and ammo
for me.
Within fifteen minutes, my "mess duty" is accomplished
and I return to the group to find this gent
called T-man.
"Anyone here called T-man?" I ask aloud. About twenty of
the club members are gathered around
the large fire for warmth.
"That would be me" called out a tall, gangly Marine.
"HUMA told me to look you up. I'm to be on your team today" I
said as I approached T-man with outstretched right hand.
Taking my hand with a firm handshake, T-man says,
"g'tohaveya. We're jest now gettin' ourselves
organized. C'mon and meet the rest of the team." says T-man.
He turns to head into the
darkness at the rear of the hut.
"I'll be right with you. Gotta get m'gear from inside" I
say and hurry off to the sleeping hut.
Inside, I notice that my rifle, gear, and ammo have been neatly
laid out on my bunk by someone.
Quickly, I gather my gear which consists of a cartridge belt with
two canteens, a small roll of
cotton, a whistle, a first aid pouch, a poncho, a rope, my K-Bar
knife, and several large plastic
garbage bags.
I am used to "dressing up" for a combat patrol and
immediately notice the absence of my
compass. I look around and see that no one else has "dressed
up" with a compass either, or so
it seems.
Hurriedly, I move outside and turn to go where I'd seen T-man
heading. I find him and two others
at the rear of the hut, standing around a small chemical heater.
The blue flame barely noticeable.
"This heya's Bill and he's gonna hunt with us today."
T-man says with a welcoming tone of voice.
"Good morning," I say, unable to clearly see the faces
of the other two men.
"Good morning Bill, " says one of the members who has
approached and extended his hand.
"Brick," I say with surprise. "You didn't tell me you
and I'd be hunting together today"
Smiling a little, Brick says, "You didn't ask me ol'
shoe." We shake hands for the second time in
the morning.
"I thought cooks didn't hunt, " I said too quickly.
"No law says we can't hunt. Most cooks don't wanna hunt
'cause of the work they do in camp.
They'd rather sleep all day. I'll head back early 'nuff to start
supper. Don't worry 'bout eatin'
tonight." Brick said jokingly.
"And I am called Rolex, " says another voice as it
approaches from the darkness.
"Good t'meet you, Rolex," I say as we shake hands.
"This heya's our team Bill." said T-man. "Me and
Rolex, who is also second in command if'n one of youse shoots
me" he says with humor.
"And you already met Brick. Best cook we got. 'glad to haveim
on this hunt with us. You and
him'll be hunting together." says T-man.
I nod acceptingly towards Brick who returns the same.
"But if you gotta piss, make sure you're at least 20 yards
and downwind from me first." Brice
says jokingly.
"No problem" I say, forcing a smile but embarrassed
still from the early morning incident.
"Now, ever'body git themself a stone" said T-man.
Wondering what he was talking about, I hesitated to see what the
others would be doing. Each
man took his flashlight out and starting searching the ground for
something. In a few minutes all
had completed their search and were standing with their find. Each
man held a small,
smooth-surfaced volcanic stone in the palm of their hand.
"Whats going on here, T-man?" I asked.
"Pohaku stones, Bill" T-man says. "Each man finds a
small volcano stone to carry along with
him. T'gether, these stones make up the kahuna god that will help
us on our hunt. This's why we
hunt in fours. Four men, four stones to represent one kahuna god
for the hunt. It's tradition, Bill."
Ancient Hawaiians
believed that certain spirits inhabited certain volcanic stone
structures and that these spirits carried
mana or spiritual powers. An example of
such stones, and their powers, are the
four famous stones that sit on Kuhio Beach
at Waikiki, named Kapaemahu, Kahaloa,
Kapuni and Kinohi. Together, they
contain the spirits of four great Kahuna
(priests) who arrived In Hawaii from Tahiti
hundreds of years ago. The Kahuna healed
the ill, performed wise acts for the
people, kept the people safe while they
fished and hunted, and kept good spirits for
fruitful living. Before they departed the
Hawaiian Islands, they asked the native
people to erect a permanent reminder of
their work. The natives chose four large
rocks taken from the area now known as
Kaimuki. On the night of kane (the 27th of
the month), thousands of Hawaiians moved
the rocks down to Waikiki. Once the
stones had been placed, Kapaemahu, leader
of the four Kahuna's named the
largest stone for himself and gave powers
to the stones through rituals and prayers.
One by one the other three kahuna did the
same. When the rituals were completed
the kahuna disappeared forever but left
the legacy that whenever any four people
gathered for a good or noble purpose, if
they each chose one volcanic rock to fit the
size of their palm, the kahuna's spirits
would accompany them as they pursued
their task.
After all this had been explained to me by T-man, I searched and
found a rock for myself.
"T-man, surely none of you believe in this? Its all superstition
man." I said
"Bill, we know of your combat service. No doubt you've found
yourself in a tight spot a few times.
"ever pray Bill?" T-man asked.
"I have...and I have." I said somewhat soberly.
"But not to some stone"
"Bill, I pray to God, to the Kahuna, to Buddha, to any other
top-guy I can think of. I don't want
anyone to feel left out when I'm hunting." T-man said. He
laughed, turned and headed to the front
of the hut and the huge bonfire that was burning down.
Each Marine has been given a call-sign of
sorts by his brothers-in-arms. Usually, it
is a name that has some unique bearing on
the individual. And the name is usually
a two-syllable word although not a rule
that is cast in stone. I hadn't "earned" my
name....yet. But it would come within the
next 72 hours. And I did not have any
idea of what would prompt it.
I had found out that T-man is actually
Terrance. He is one of the clubs original
founders and a very senior Hunt Master who
just came off a hunt in that capacity,
hence the reason he is not HUMA for this
trip. No one HUMA's back-to-back hunts.
I'd also heard - from several men the past
few hours - that T-man had personally
carried a Marine over eighteen miles
across the volcanic "meadow" back to base
camp when the Marine, having ignored ample
warnings, had gone off by himself
only to later be found wedged in a
fissure, both legs broken and several
serious
lacerations on his face and upper torso.
T-man had sent the rest of his team back
to camp. He had followed, carrying the
wounded Marine on his back, all the way
back. It had taken all night to get him
safely back to camp. The rescue party had
gotten lost during the night searching for
the two and had to hole up until daybreak
when they returned to camp only to find
T-man sitting there drinking hot coffee.
"Brick" was actually Brandon. He
had gotten very drunk during his first night of
R-and-R (Rest and Recreation)
"visit" in Malaysia and had thrown a rather large
rock through the rather larger window of a
nightclub after he had been bodily
removed for being "... a little
unruly." When local police had arrived to arrest and
take him to the American Embassy for
return to Vietnam, he took the same rock
and almost killed one of the policemen
with it. The five inch scar that diagonally
crossed Bricks forehead was a stark
testimony of what a leaded billy club could do
to the head of someone who was laughing
when he should have been running.
Rolex was actually Jonathan. A large,
slender Swede who loved the Philippine
Islands, especially Subic Bay and the
little town of Olongopo just outside the main
gate. The problem was, Rolex loved more
than just the geography and whatever
historical sites could be found, although
it was a given that no one had ever seen
him "sightseeing" as defined by
Webster. Rather, Jonathan a.k.a. Rolex loved a
whole lot of the ladies who worked in the
various bars on the other side of s*it river.
In fact, he loved so many that he resorted
to keeping individual, personal,
"statistics" on rolex cards - to
include menstrual periods – on each one. Curiously,
the women who worked these bars were
highly jealous of each others "man"
clients, often resorting to clandestine
operations to steal a man-client from another.
It was not unusual to see a bar-woman
wearing bandages on her face, ears, or even
breasts. And men did not inflict the
injuries. Jonathan knew of such jealousies and
tried to maintain a "neutral"
posture amongst his various "loves". This had worked
for months until one night several of the
"ladies" gathered together to reward him for
his benevolence. The knife scar on his
left collar was a grim reminder that hell hath
no fury as that of a woman (or, in his
case, women) scorned.
And so it began. The first day of hunting in the rugged area known
as the PTA. T-man, Rolex,
Brick, and me...with my Brass Ring.
End of Chapter 2
Chapter 3: The First Day
We marshal around the waning bonfire as HUMA approaches. He blows
one short burst on his
whistle.
Six 4-man teams encircle the fire for one last time before the
hunt will actually begin. It is nearing
04:30 and he announces that we must start moving out. He hesitates
a moment before
continuing,
"We have not had a serious injury or fatal incident for three
years now. And a lot of hunts have
gone down." HUMA's face is illuminated by the bonfire, his
eyes peering out into the night but we
all know he is eyeballing each of us.
"Lets keep it that way. Remember, your team leader has
absolute..." he hesitates again as his
eyes roam from left to right "and I mean ABSOLUTE authority
over you and every aspect of the
hunt. We are still Marines. This hunt is officially sanctioned.
Therefore, consider your team
leaders authority to be only one click lower than that of Gods. My
authority is one click higher!"
HUMA smiles as his eyes glare into the darkness.
"One last thing. Your team leader has a topo of the area your
team will be hunting in. Stay within
the prescribed perimeter of your hunt zone. We don't want anyone
wandering around where they
shouldn't be." HUMA nods to one member who steps forward and
into the light.
"This is Doc Ambrose. He is the corpsman for the hunt".
HUMA held his hand out to Ambrose.
Military policy required at least one trained military medical
professional to accompany each hunt
on Hawaii. The professional could be either an actual doctor, or,
a Fleet Marine Force Corpsman,
FMF Doc for short. These were Navy medical personnel who trained
AS Marines, lived WITH
Marines and WORKED with Marines in the field. The Marine Corps
does not have its own medical
branch. The Navy provides all medical and dental support for the
Corps.
"Howdy, jarheads. I am Master Chief Don Ambrose. I've been
with you Marines since I don't know
when. I'm a Marine just like you, through and through. I'm here
when needed. Otherwise, leave
me the hell alone to read my girly books." Doc Ambrose smiled
and then stepped back into the
darkness.
"Team leaders, mount out!" HUMA called. "And good luck
to all of you. Lets have some fresh
meat for chow tonight!"
Picture a wagon wheel, with six spokes running out from the
center. Each spoke widens away
from the other spokes as the outer rim of the wheel is approached.
Thats the way of the hunt
pattern. Each team will hunt either side of their
"spoke" to the middle area between the spoke on
the left and right of them. In this fashion, each team's hunting
territory gets bigger as they
progress further into the PTA "volcanic meadow" as it is
sarcastic ally called. While it is possible
for two teams to meet each other between spokes somewhere along
the route, this rarely
happens because of the large areas being hunted. PTA has thousands
of acres of open hunting
for our club. A four-man team would work all day to walk to the
edge of any part of their hunting
territory.
The crisp, early morning air becomes suddenly silent save the soft
footsteps of unseen men as
they disappear into the darkness, each team following a designated
"spoke" until they reach their
assigned hunting zone. Some "lateral hunting" may occur
en route but for the most part, the
teams want to get to the "meat" of their territory
before the sun starts to bear down on them.
"Who does HUMA hunt with?" I ask as I step off to follow
my team.
"Any one he wants to" says T-man. "He is the honcho
on this trip. We might even see him spend
a little time with us. Don't be surprised if you see him in your
sights. Just don't shoot 'im " T-man
laughs as he leads us into the cold, dark void in front of us.
We travel for about 15 minutes when we are whispered to a stop.
"Bill, you got your brass ring with you?" asks T-man.
"Got it right here " I say, as I tap my chest.
"Lets go single file, in the order of the hunt" says
T-man.
"Bill, you are number 3 in line. Rolex is behind me, and
Brick will bring up the rear. Keep it real
quiet." T-man waits while we switch places. Satisfied, he
turns and heads off again. Three
Marines follow this Korean War veteran, single file, into the
darkness.
For the next hour or so we travel along defined trails that wind
up and down volcanic cliffs,
between waist-high vegetation and head high volcanic boulders,
under overhangs and over
crevices. Just as the sun is threatening to raise its head in the
east, T-man signals us to a halt.
We had been walking single-file up a sharp incline for the past 45
minutes or so and are very near
the military crest. Every one of us is in a full sweat even though
the temperature still had not
climbed above 28 degrees or so.
T-man whispers us to a halt anddrops to his knees.
"Whats up T-man?" whispers "Rolex",
second-in-command and second in line. I am directly
behind T-man in the number 3 slot. "Brick" is
immediately behind me and now moves up
alongside of me and halts. We are kneeling behind Rolex, facing
T-man.
T-man turns to us and says in a low voice, "Up ahead on our
left. Ten o'clock. 'bout 7 clicks. I
think they're goats. Looks like 40, maybe more. Can't tell too
much in this darkness yet."
T-man points to Brick.
"Brick, c'mon up and glass 'em for us if you will?"
He motions to Rolex to move aside and let Brick through which he
does. He brings a pair of
Steiner MilSpec binoculars with him.
After a minute or so, Brick slithers back and we all join around.
"Yeh, I can see 'em pretty good. I'd say about 700 yards.
More like 9 o'clock but it doesn't
matter. The sun's gonna shine from our left anyhow." We had
been traveling south almost from
the start, according to my reading of the stars and the big
dipper.
" Shootin' from here is gonna be tricky. Sun's coming up and
so is the wind. You know how it
swirls out there in the open, T-man". Brick waits for T-man
to respond.
Taking his bush hat off and wiping his brow with the sleeve of his
left arm, T-man looks at Rolex..
"You and me will wait over there in that draw." pointing
to an almost invisible indentation in the
lava to our right.
"We'll ambush 'em if they spook. They should come our way.
The other side is a sheer drop and
the cliffs ahead and behind them are quite formidable. HUMA picked
us a good route for sure."
T-man looked at Brick.
"Take Bill and move around there..." T-man pointed
towards our left - the east - and a crevice that
could barely be seen.
He really did know the PTA!
"Follow alongside that crevice for 2, maybe 300 yards. Don't
get into it 'cause it'll eat your legs
off. Stay on the inside edge where its easier to walk and you
should come out close enough for
some good shots." T-man said to Brick.
"You will have the sun at your back and it will be in their
eyes. Might give you some advantage."
He put his bush hat back on.
"Bill, nows the time to show us some s*it. We know you can
shoot.Your record says so. Lets
get us some meat, OK?" T-man slaps me lightly on the shoulder
and motions Brick to start
moving.
Brick and I move off about 25 yards when I tap him on the shoulder.
"Brick," I say, stopping him dead in
his tracks. He turns to face me.
"Tell me, what we are doing now.? I feel like a damned
mushroom." I say.
"Right." acknowledges Brick. He hesitates a moment then
says, "We are
gonna move up on the left flank of that herd and get into
position. The sun will be at our
back. Then, we are gonna fill our game bags Bill. Simple as
that." He smiles at me and takes his rope
from his cartridge belt.
Brick takes one end of his rope and ties it around his waste. He
uncoils the rope and hands the
other end to me.
"Tie this around your waste real good." And he points to
the darkened chasm near us. He need
not say anything more. If one of us steps off and into the
crevice, the other will at least have a
life-line to him.
With about 10 feet of slack rope between us, we
set off along the crevice. Another 20 minutes of
some really tough walking if you call tip-toeing through the lava
'tulips', 'walking' and we enter a
rather larger open area that fans out in front of us. By now the
sun has broken the horizon and we
can see clearly.
"Over there, the herd" I say in a low whisper as I
extend my right arm out to the right of our
position.
"Good eye, Bill" says Brick. "Now, we only have to
get a little closer and into a good prone
position."
"How much closer do you think we can get, Brick" I ask.
"I take it, we are about 3-350 yards
distance from here even now. Hell, thats really good enough for
me." I say.
"Maybe for you ol' boy..." Brick says, "but I've
been up since 02:30 and my eyes feel like sand.
Lets try to get at least another 75 yards or so, eh?"
"No problem for me Brick. Just don't fart loud" I say,
chuckling at my own joke. Brick throws a
dumb-s*it look back at me and moves forward on all fours.
Lava is nothing to fool with. You either know what you're doing
around it, or you don't. I did not.
On hands and knees for less than one minute and I'd already
sustained several deep cuts on my
knees and heels of the both hands. No one said anything about
bringing leather gloves along!
"Use your hat Bill." said Brick. He demonstrated how to
use the bush hat as an alternating hand
pad. It made it much easier. But the knees were still to be
further victimized. We four-pointed it
for a few more minutes when Brick stopped.
"Here Bill." He pointed to a lava ledge about 3 feet
high and directly in front of us. For the
moment, it was keeping us concealed from the herd as we moved in
on them.
"We can bench rest it from that ledge. Hell, we can sit there
all day if need be." Brick opened the
bipods on his Remington 30-06.
"Do you still have the glasses? " I asked, referring to
the binoculars he'd used earlier.
"Nope. gave 'em to T-man. They are his. He asked me to carry
them for him until we reached that
spot back there." Brick was taking the lens cover off his
scope now.
"Ok. Move over a little and I'll use my scope." I said
as I moved up along side of him. Brick moved
over enough to allow me a comfortable area to set up. I could now
see the herd clearly.
"Bill, you take the right side, over to center mass. I'll
take left to center mass." Brick was looking
through his scope as he spoke.
"Sounds good to me." as I positioned my Winchester in
.270WIN. I was eager to see how my
new loads for the 150 grain Speer boat tail spitzers would serve
me on this hunt. Pushed by 53
grains of IMR4350, I felt they would hold their own against any
four-legged critter I'd see up here.
They performed admirably at the range out to 500 yards. Accuracy
was more than adequate with
.75 MOA at 100 yards.
The Nikon Gold Ring 4-12x40 scope really brought the dawning light
in. I could see clearly. I had
thought a feral goat would look completely different from the
goats back on my grandfathers farm
in south western Pennsylvania. And these goats were much larger
but not so "colorful". It was
also obvious they liked their wild way of living. And it was
obvious that living had been good for
them. With no predators and few hunters, and a habitat that not
yet come close to exceeding the
carrying capacity; these animals were doing excellent indeed.
"Anytime you are ready, I am ready" said Brick.
"Listen for my thunder" I said, and squeezed off the
first shot of the hunt.
For the next 35 minutes we took our time. The herd had dispersed
quickly after the first shot but
were somewhat trapped in their area. As they moved from behind
boulders, we would shoot. The
shots echoed loudly and the goats were confused as to where they
were coming from. God, I
thought, I only wish we could catch the 'cong in this sort of
situation. A shooting gallery to be
sure.
Then, as suddenly as we had started, it was over. Silence. The
goats had somehow collected
themselves behind a leader and were headed north, behind us and
right into T-man and Rolex. In
a few minutes, we heard them shooting. It was like being back in
the 'nam for moment. The
shooting was "far away but close enough" as we would
say. And then, that shooting stopped as
well.
"C'mon Bill, we've work to do now son." Brick said as he
started over the ledge, rifle slung over
his shoulder.
"Right behind you, Brick" I said as I followed suit. And
I soon found out why each of us carried
three knives and an arkansas sharpening stone.
Our shooting had actually begun around 06:45 and continued until a
little past 07:10. From 07:20
until shortly before high noon, we field dressed and quartered the
slain animals. Brick and I had
20 large plastic bags between us. They were all used. All total,
we had dropped eleven goats. I'd
never hunted like that before in my life. I did not know quite
what to believe, or how to believe it.
The meat would all be consumed. On that, there was no doubt.
Several local families "down the
mountain" would eat well for awhile. And we would load our
coolers and take them back to our
homes at K-bay. But still, eleven animals in the span of approximately
30 minutes? It almost
seemed insane to me. On average, we'd killed one goat every two to
three minutes or so. Barely
time for our barrels to cool.
I had dropped six and Brick had dropped the other five. He might
have dropped more but his
scope had gotten bumped rather hard on the trip up from camp and
he was off-sight about six
clicks. By the time he'd realized it and corrected for it using
"Kentucky windage", the herd had
dispersed. No shot was taken under 200 yards. Most were between 2
and 400. We also killed a
lot of lava boulders. The sound was unmistakable. "We won't
skin those." Brice had said, with a
loud laugh immediately following. And so, the morning was
considered a complete success.
At noon, we stopped, washed our hands with one canteen shared
between us, and ate our lunch.
The sausage sandwiches tasted better than any 5th Avenue steak. We
washed lunch down with
canteen water and began the task of bracing the plastic bags laden
with meat on our backpack
frames. We were both using the standard GI issue aluminum backpack
frame, a second
generation frame that was originally modeled after the one
"invented" by someone who was with
Merrils Marauders in Burma during World War II. Lightweight, they
were quite comfortable to wear
while carrying a heavy load. I felt it odd that I was carrying a
heavy load on a pack-frame that was
designed and built the year I was born. Mounting up, we headed
back from whence we'd come.
Arriving at our earlier dispersion point, there was no sign of
T-man or Rolex.
"We'll wait here awhile for them. Probably doing what we just
did." Said Brick.
We dropped our loads into some brush just to keep the direct sun
from hitting the bags of meat.
"Whew." remarked Brick as he pulled a Camel from his
breast pocket. "I'm already beat. How hot
do you make it to be, Bill?"
"I dunno. Hotter'n last nite to be sure." I laughed as I
kicked the ground with my boot. It was then
that I'd noticed the cuts and scrapes on the boot. A years worth
of damage inflicted in less than
half a day! Talk about razor-sharp rocks! And the cuts on my hands
and knees were beginning to
sting loudly. I'd dressed them, using my first aid kit but I had
no topical anesthetic ointment in my
kit. I'd have to wait and let Doc have a look at them.
"Yeh, " Brick said, blowing a smoke ring into the air.
"I heard about that. No sleeping bag, eh?"
He laughed out loud.
"Screw you Brick" I said, laughing with him. "You
may find your bag missing tonite as well"
"Just so's no one takes my rubber lady from me." He
said, referring to his inflatable mattress that
he'd brought along.
"So what are you gonna do about tonight?" Brick asked
flatly. "It ain't gonna be any warmer, ya
know."
"I am working on that very issue even as we speak." I
said, knowing that he knew I had
absolutely no idea of what I was going to do.
"You can sleep in the supply hut ya know." and he
laughed again.
"Yeh, and really freeze my gonads off. Screw you Mister
Friend-of-mine." I said, standing up to
stretch.
"You two gonna sit on your asses all day?" T-man asked
as he approached from the brush. His
backpack was heavily loaded as well.
"How'dya all do?" Rolex asked as he emerged from the
brush, behind T-man.
"Shot a lot...got a few." Brick said. "Bill here
did all the killing. My damned scope got knocked
out coming up in the dark somehow."
"Same excuse you've used the last two times, ain't it Brick?'
T-man said, laughing out loud.
"As Bill has said so eloquently to me several times this very
morning.....SCREW YOU T-Man".
Brick offered with a smile.
"Ah...but the day is only half over, sonny boy." Rolex
said as he dropped his pack near ours.
"You want I should loan you my eyeglasses, eh?" and he
smiled as he dropped to the ground. He
had no eyeglasses. His vision was 20/20 in both eyes.
We waited while T-man and Rolex ate their lunch then mounted up
and began the trip back to
camp. As it always is, the outdoors looks so much different in the
day than at night. I'd an
entirely different vision in my mind of the territory around us as
we walked in during the night.
Now, I could see the splendor and the raw beauty of it all. In the
far distance ahead of me I could
see a volcano. I rotated my body to look behind me and saw yet
another one far away into the
distance. Quite a few miles separated them.
"Beautiful sight, ain't it?" said Brick.
"Absolutely breathtaking." I allowed.
"That volcano on the right..." said Brick, "is
Mauna Kea. The one behind us is Mauna Loa. Kea is
the Hawaiian term for "White Mountain". I turned around
and fell in behind Rolex who was
stepping out smartly.
"It's about 18,000 feet high which means 8000 feet in
elevation for every 15 road miles coming up.
Thats why your ears popped." We had driven for more than 90
minutes in the four-wheeled
vehicles. I'd heard someone say we had driven over 30 miles to get
here.
"What about Mauna Loa?" I asked.
"Long Mountain. Thats what the names means. It's only 117
feet shorter than its sister. 'Loa is
the most massive mountain on earth. Lots of people don't know
that. It contains over 10,000
cubic miles of solid, iron-hard lava. And it's a mutha to
work." Said Brick, panting now as we all
were. "I'm sure glad HUMA did not pick area 3 to hunt this
weekend. Thats what I'm talking
about."
"But why is it called 'Long Mountain'?" I asked,
referring to Mauna Loa.
"Because its 60 miles long and 30 miles wide. It occupies
almost the entire southern tip of this
island, Pal." Brick was puffing hard.
"I don't wanna talk anymore. Lets take a break T-man." I
asked.
"Good call. Lets take 15 men." T-man said as he drew up
short and dropped his pack.
We arrived back at camp at 14:50. To say that we were tired, hot,
and sweaty is to put it mildly.
We headed straight for the meat hut where Brick unlocked the door.
Inside, we pulled the meat
from our bags and hung it on hooks. We each had a small box of
colored thumb tacks that we
now inserted into each piece of our meat. I had the blue thumb
tacks. Two tacks per chunk of
meat.
"Theres only so many colors ya' know," I said to T-man
as I pushed another tack into a ham.
"Yep. Thats why we mark a number on our tacks with a felt
pen. You are number 23 Bill." The
tacks were the large type and fine tipped felt pens were used. All
in all, it was a good system.
By 15:30 all teams had checked back in. No injuries were reported
although one member had
completely demolished his Sako 7MM rifle when the sling broke
while jumping across a crevice.
The rifle had fallen eleven feet into the crevice. Luckily, the
gap was large enough for the smallest
member of that team to retrieve the rifle. But the wooden stock
had cracked at the pistol grip and
the scope was trashed. He definitely was not in a good mood,
needless to say.
Another team had run into a small herd of sheep but they were too
far away for a good shot. No
one had seen any pigs yet, but I was informed that they would be
"...hunted tomorrow."
By the time all the meat had been hung, clearly, a full one third
of the meat hut was used up. It
looked like a walk-in cooler in a meat processing plant.
Brice had started to prepare the evening meal within 10 minutes of
returning to base camp. He
had hunted as hard as any of us during the morning and was now
pouring himself into his cooking
duties without so much as a whimper. I could easily see why the
clubs members held him in
such high regard.
"Brice, want some help?" I asked, walking up to where he
was emptying a huge can of tomatoes
in a large stainless steel pot.
"Not unless you really want to give yourself the mark of the
devil." He said, laughing out loud.
"Yeh, I could always apply for cooks school at Lejuene,
right?" I said, laughing with him. I rolled
up my sleeve and began to peel the rather large pile of potatoes
he had layed out.
"Well, Bill. Wheres that ring I gave you?" asked HUMA as
he walked into the mess tent.
"Right here, HUMA." I said, tapping my breast.
"Good. I feel you will most certainly need it for the
afternoons hunt. Don't loose it now, you hear?"
and he walked away.
"Whats with this brass ring stuff?" I ask Brice.
"Can't tell ya Bill. Gotta figure that one out fer
yerself." Brice said, winking at me.
"Let it be sufficient to say that each of us had our very own
brass ring when we first came out."
and he would say no more.
We had a few hours before heading back out. This time, each team
would take a different trail.
And we'd hunt until we could not see anymore. We would be coming
"home in the dark" as one
member put it. I decided to find a cool place and take a nap,
forgetting about the need to decide
how I would keep warm during the night. Brice informed me that he
would not be goind out with
us for the afternoon hunt. He had to remain in camp to prepare
supper. Another member would
take his place. Who could it be?as I fell off into a deep sleep.
End of chapter 3
Chapter 4: Close Call
"Wake up, Bill" said Rolex as he kicked my foot once
more for emphasis.
"ummmmm. What time is it?" I ask without opening my eyes
or stirring from my sleeping position
on the ground.
"Close to 16:00 and everyone's getting ready to hit the
trails." Rolex said. "Now, c'mon, I ain't
gonna stand here all day with you."
I opened my eyes. It was bright daylight. A moment of
disorientation flooded over me before I
realized that it was still the first day of the hunt. I'd just
taken a mid-day nap, thats all.
Rolex walked away upon seeing me stand up. I looked back down at
the ground. My gear was
where I'd dropped it. I picked up my cartridge belt and rifle and
headed to what had become a
community fire-hole. Even though it was almost 4 P.M., cloud-less
sky, and warm sun, the air
was quite cold.
"Check your personal gear. Canteens, water, ammo, and all the
rest." It was HUMA. He was
walking among the hunters pointing out things that needed to be
corrected.
"You new men, " HUMA said, referring to me and five
others who were on their first hunt,
"...double check your equipment. This afternoon won't be as
easy as this morning."
This morning was EASY? Whew. What, then, is this afternoon going
to be like? I thought to
myself.
Walking up to the group, I start looking for anyone on my team. I
spot Brick on the other side of
the fire, talking to another hunter. Working my way through the
group I come up on his left side.
He is talking to a tall red-headed youth who seems to be confused
about something.
"Am I imposing on something here? " I ask, stepping
closer.
"Not at all Bill. I was just explaining a few things to
Carrot here." Brick steps back one step to
allow me in closer.
"Carrot?" I ask Brick.
"Yeh. Tall, slender, red-hair. That's the call-sign we just
gave ol' Freddie here." Brick said with a
large smile on his face.
"How do you feel about be called 'carrot' ?" I ask Freddie.
"I don't mind it. 'been called worse things in m'life."
Freddie says,
rubbing his right hand over his short, cropped head. His hair is the brightest
strawberry red I've
ever seen I thought to myself.
Turning to Brick I ask, "I understand that you ain't going
back out this afternoon?"
"Nah. Too much to do for supper. Besides, I like it better
when you gents do the gutting part and I
get to choose my meat." Brick said with a smile on his face.
Brick leaned towards me, looking to his left then his right. He
said in a lowered voice, "I think
you're gonna be in for a real treat this afternoon though."
"Hows that?" I inquired.
"Well, I think HUMA's gonna be my replacement. At least I
think that’s what I heard between him
and T-man a few minutes ago." Brick pulled back,
straightening up, his voice still lower than
normal.
"So what?" I offer. "He puts his pants on the same
way the rest of us do."
"Just thought you'd like to know aforehand, thats all
Bill." Brick said, a little flustered.
"Sorry Brick, I wasn't being sarcastic. I was hoping that you
and I could finish the day out
together. Thats all." I said, the truth obviously sincere in
the tone of my voice from the way Brick
warmed to it.
"Bill!" T-man had noticed me. He beckoned me with his
right hand to move over to where he was
standing.
"See you later Brick. I'll try to get you some good meat.
Good to meet you, 'Carrot' " I say with a
slight grin as I turn to leave.
Walking up to T-man's left side, I look around. HUMA is on T-man's
right side.
"Bill, Brick has work to do for the evening meal so he won't
be hunting this afternoon. HUMA has
agreed to be your partner. Is that OK with you?" T-man asked
sincerely. "You have the final say
on this, so speak up. No one will take your reply wrong whatever
it is."
"I'd be honored to hunt with you today, " I say,
extending my right hand.
"The honor is all mine Bill." said HUMA as he took my
right hand.
"Heard about your hunt this morning. Some good shooting out
there. I am sort of partial to the
.270 myself but I brought my old .30-40 Krag on this hunt. Trying
some new loads." HUMA patted
his left leg pocket.
"It's settled then. Lets get dressed and move out.' T-man
announced.
Having "dressed" as T-man put it, we gathered near the
western side of the camp. I noticed that
T-man kept looking first at his map, then lifting his eyes towards
the northern part of the island
where Mauna Kea stood in all its splendor. Snow was clearly
visible on its slopes, some 30 miles
in the distance.
"Gonna get a might cooler." HUMA said to T-man as he and
I come up behind T-man.
"Yessir. Colder'n a witches tit in a tin brassiere."
T-man said, looking at his map again.
"Wheres Rolex? " I asked to no one in particular.
"Right behind you Bill." Rolex said as he walked up.
"Lets get moving T-man. It's gonna get cold
soon enough."
We had walked for a little more than an hour before taking our
first stop. The campsite had long
disappeared from sight. The terrain in this part of the PTA was
much more rugged than what we'd
traveled on during the morning's hunt. I'd attached an additional
small medical pouch to my
cartridge belt before leaving camp. In it, I'd put an extra pair
of woolen socks, a pair of leather
gloves I'd borrowed from the gent that broke his rifle during the
morning hunt, and of course, the brass ring. I'd also packed along
some additional First-Aid supplies
I'd gotten from Doc Ambrose. I'd not be caught out in this stuff
again without the fixings for
some serious scrapes and cuts. "Lets park it for 15."
T-man said. We had all broken out in a heavy
sweat. Is there anywhere a person could walk on this damned island
that was NOT UPWARDS? I
thought. I dropped my harness and cartridge belt and plopped
myself down.
"Go easy on that, Bill" cautioned Rolex as I took a long
draw on my canteen. "There's very little
water in this part of the PTA."
"Yes, where we're headed, the only water
will be some snow, if we're lucky." T-man said,
throwing a glance to HUMA.
"He does have two canteens, T-man" HUMA said in my
defense. But the tone of his voice said
something different. It was almost as if his words were a dare of
some sort.
"OK. He's been amply warned. He's a grown man. If he runs
out, he goes thirsty." said T-man.
What is THIS all about? Why the sudden animosity between these
two? I wondered. Alarms
started going off in my head. I'd taken marines out on long
distance recon patrols in country
many times. I made it a point to stay tuned to their vibes. These
vibes, while on the surface
smacked of animosity, rang an undercurrent of mischief to my ears.
What ARE these two up
to, anyway?"
A few more minutes of light banter and we were on our feet again,
stomping our way uphill
and towards the 60-mile long base of Mauna Kea.
We'd walked only about 20 minutes when T-man signaled us to a
halt. We all dropped in
place, to one knee. Same setup as during the morning hunt. T-man
at point, then Rolex, then
me, and finally, HUMA bringing up the rear.
"Contact?" Rolex whispered to T-man.
"I think we've got some sheep ahead of us. 'can't see 'em but
I can hear 'em.' T-man said
quietly.
"We need to really be quiet, " HUMA said. "Sheep
are a lot more jittery than goats."
"Bill, you and HUMA take the lead. You got point, Bill."
T-man said.
No problem for me. Being point was old hat. I knew how to be stealthy
and my senses were
all at a high pitch. Hell, I'd even trained other marines how to
do this.
"OK. Five yard intervals, " I whisper to my team, then I
move to the front.
Looking back over my shoulder, I see the other three in their
proper place with five yards
between each man. They are waiting for me to move out. Lifting
myself to a low crouch, I
move out, climbing the narrow passage between two sheer cliffs of
lava. We are headed
straight into some of the toughest country on earth to move around
in. Full of dangerous
crevices, sharp rocks and boulders, and uneven ground. I am aware
that the slightest misstep
could result in a twisted ankle, a broken limb, or severe cuts.
Perhaps even a man - some
crevices were that deep. Any of which could put a serious damper
on the hunt. Even
perhaps cause us to cancel it and return to camp and Doc Ambrose.
We continue for another 20 minutes or so until
the passage – which has been little more than 3
feet wide - just begins to widen more. The slope of the path has
become increasing more
angled. I figure we are now walking uphill at an angle of at least
30 degrees. But I can see the
top of this "hill" about 50 yards in front of us. No
sign or sound of sheep so far.
Suddenly, totally unexpected, it seems as if every sheep in the
world is running around us.
One large ram runs right past me, down the trail we'd just come
up. He actually runs into
HUMA and knocks him down, hard, like a huge linebacker hitting a
smaller half-back. T-man
barely manages to side-step as the animal blew by him. Rolex,
bringing up the rear, has time
to turn at the fleeing sheep and gets two very, very quick shots
off with his bolt action rifle. In
the meantime, I am running full steam uptrail with T-man right
behind me. I want to get into
that herd. Inside it! T-man runs past me like a Kentucky
race-horse. I puff harder to catch up
to him. Finally, we're both in the open.
I've never seen so many animals in such proximity in all my life.
Not even in a zoo. And these
were wild things, running around wildly. They were trying to run
up the slippery lava slopes on
our right and left but can't get a foot-hold, and slide back down
and into the rest of the herd
who has the same idea. If my adrenalin had not been running so
high, I would have laughed at
the site. But T-man's rifleshot brings me back to reality.
"Shoot, gawdammit! shoot" yells T-man to me with his
back against a large lava boulder, rifle
at the shoulder. He's left of the trails opening, I am right of
it, also with a large lava boulder at
my back.
I lean back against the boulder, rifle balanced across my body in
my hanging right arm. Then I
bust out for sure. Laughing out loud at T-man, at the sight of
more than 100 sheep each trying
to climb over one another to mount a slope they simply cannot get
on, has my eyes watering
with laughter. T-man takes aim at one sheep, moving with it as
another crossed his line of
sight. He then sights on the crossing sheep but another crosses
his sights. He keeps refocusing
on sheep as they keep criss-crossing in front of him. He can't get
a shot off because of all the
confusion. It only makes me laugh harder. I think of the time in
Vietnam, in our wooden
hootch one evening, when Joe Fox and I squirted some lighter fluid
on a large roach and set
him afire. He ran around just like these sheep are doing. Joe and
I laughed until we almost
wet our pants....until the roach found a crack in the wall of the
hootch. The wall caught fire
and the entire hootch eventually went up in flames. That was
really difficult to explain to the
camps commandant. Roaches and Sheep. What a life!
Within 3-4 minutes it was silent. No one could figure out where
the sheep had disappeared
to. We had a good vantage point to observe 360 degrees around us
now. We were at a
higher elevation, so looking down and around was easy. Still, no
sign of the sheep. HUMA
was sitting up by now. He had a prettly large gash across the
right side of his head, from an
inch or so behind the ear all the way to the corner of right eye.
He was bleeding like a stuck
hog.
"Bill, bring that First Aid pouch here! " It was Rolex.
He had applied the only pressure
bandage he had in his field first aid kit but the bleeding was
still coming rather strongly.
Running down the trail, I kneel next to Rolex and HUMA.
"Rock or hoof?" I ask HUMA. If the wound was caused by
the animals hoof, it could be
more serious than if caused by a rock-cut. It could have even been
caused by a horn as most
of the sheep had full-curls of horn.
."Don't know for sure. Felt like twenty of those mutha's
running over me all at once." HUMA
exclaimed through clenched teeth.
"What color is the blood?" I ask Rolex as handed him my
First Aid pouch..
"Bright red....ain't pumping. we made out." said Rolex
as he opened the pouch and withdrew
a large pressure bandage. We all knew arterial bleeding would be
dark red, and pumping out
rather than running out. HUMA's wound was not life-threatening.
But he'd have a scar to
explain the rest of his life. I wondered what story he would
associate with it.
Rolex was now applying a
fresh bandage, and it appeared to working. The blood seepage
had stopped.
"Up here,..." I started saying to HUMA, "...one
must not use his head to take game. Bullets
are better." and I laughed out loud. "you'll make it
just fine. It looks like you lost a lot of
blood, but I figure..." mockingly looking him over
"....not more than five gallons, give or take a
pint." I laughed again and this time, all three of us were
laughing. "Can't have you hunting with us anymore."
Rolex said to HUMA. "This white wrapping on your head is like
a British Redcoat. The animals will see you coming from San Diego."
"Does that mean that
you don't love me anymore?" HUMA said with a smile, crinching at the
pain it brought to his face.
"Who ever told you anyone loved you anyway"?" Rolex
said back. The friendly
bantering went of for a few minutes more. Long enough for Rolex to satisfy
himself that HUMA was out of danger and that Rolex could
relax.Marines are like that. You could be dying in a buddies arm
and the survivor-to-be could be asking permission to date your
wife. Only true brothers could relate to one another like that.
Having satisfied himself that HUMA would survive his medical
attention, Rolex stood up.
"Watch him for me,
will ya' Bill? I'm gonna see if I hit that sheep."
and he starts back down
the trail.
"Sure. Good luck." I say to his back.
"Sure is exciting to hunt here, ain't it Bill? says HUMA with
a humorous voice, trying to force
his mind off the pain.
"Yep. Ain't every day I get to see a marine gets his brains
knocked out by a sheep on the
run." I reply, smiling.
T-man has joined us by now and stoops to look at Rolex's work on
HUMA.
"How much do ya' think he will bill ya' fer?" T-man asks
as he gently turns HUMA's head.
We all know T-man is referencing Rolex's medical work.
"Don't know, but his bedside manner is sorely lacking."
says HUMA.
"He did good on ya' m'friend." T-man says as he stands
up.
"Where is he, anyway?' T-man asks, as he looks around.
."Said he was gonna look for that sheep he shot at. Maybe he
hit it." I said, moving to stand
with him.
"He'd best get his ass back here. We ain't got much time to
get to where we gotta be." T-man
said, looking at his wristwatch.
"You feel like going on, or want someone to take you back to
camp? " T-man askes HUMA.
"Na. Got a little headache but ain't no worse than having my
gonads ripped off with a pair of
pliers." HUMA says with humor. He will be alright.
It's been a full half-hour since Rolex had walked down the trail
in search of sign that he might
have hit the sheep. I am starting to get concerned and it is also
shared with T-man and
HUMA.
"I think I'm gonna go look for Rolex. Maybe he found that
sheep and would appreciate some
help getting it quartered." I said.
"Good idea Bill." T-man says.
"Just be sure to watch your step and don't deviate too far
from the trail." T-man exhorted. "I'll
stick around here and watch that HUMA don't slip off into a coma
or sumpthin'" he said as he
padded HUMA's shoulder, smiling.
"See you soon." I say as I start down the trail.
I had gone almost 200 yards down trail when I heard a faint sound
off the my right. The trail
was running along a crest with the right side sloping sharply down
and away from the trail.
Scrub vegetation covered the slope heavily.
Stopping, I go quiet and listen. A moment later, I hear it again.
A weak sound, sort of like a
kitten would make.
"Hello!" I yell outloud, facing the right slope.
A few second later and I repeat, "Hello!"
The rifle shot took me completely by surprise. It came from the
direction of the sound I'd
heard. Then another shot. Then another.
Three shots! Distress signal.
I move quickly by cautiously down into the heavy brush. No sign of
anything having moved
through it recently, but I continue a straight course down the
slope, watching my flanks and
footing carefully.
"Hello!' I call out once again.
This time I hear the kitten-sound more clearly. It's off the my
left a little. I change direction
and head towards the sound.
As careful as I have been, I still almost stepped into it. A crevice
right in front of me, running
left to right. It's about four feet wide and very deep. I grab
hold of some scrub bush to keep
from falling over and into the crevice. By pure happenstance do I
not walk into it !
"Hello" I call, looking down into the crevice.
Thinking the sound might have come from the crevice, I am still
surprised to hear it coming
back to me from deep down in.
It doesn't sound human. Then, I hear it.
"Help me" very weakly.
I rack off three shots immediately into the air. Then, I start
clearing some brush away from the
crevice opening. I have no flashlight on me and I have no idea of
how deep the crevice might
be. I only know that someone is down there and I am certain that
" that someone" is Rolex.
"Bill!" It's T-man from up on the trail. "Where are
you?"
"Down here. You got HUMA with you?" I yell back up to
T-man. The slope is quite steep
and the vegetation is mid-torso high. Theres no way I can see T-man or
that he can see me.
"Yeh, we're both here. That you shooting 3 shots?" HUMA
calls out.
"Yeh. Look where I came down. The brush should show my path.
I think Rolex is in a hole."
I yell out.
"A HOLE" exclaims T-man.
"Yes. A deep crevice. He might be seriously hurt. I need a
light." I yell back.
Within moments all three of us are at the edge of the crevice.
HUMA has a flashlight, as well
as T-man. Using both lights, we look into the crevice. Nothing.
"Rolex, is that you down there?" calls out HUMA
"Help me" comes a very faint reply.
"We've got to get him out. Sounds like he's hardly hanging
on." Says HUMA
"Someone has to go down there and get him" says T-man.
"Gimme your ropes, " HUMA says " I'm gonna lower
myself down to him."
"No you are not, " interjected T-man. "You're
already messed up with that head injury. I'll do
it."
I am standing there, watching all this go on back and forth. A
badly injured marine is down
and we have got to get him out. "I'll do it,
" I said.
"Nope, Bill. Not your responsibility." T-man says.
"Let him do it T-man" says HUMA. "He's a better fit
for the crevicethan you or me."
HUMA is correct. Between the three of us, I look tailor-made for
that crevice.
"Thats it then. Give me one end of your rope, HUMA" I
said.
Tying our three ropes together, I rig a rope saddle and begin the
descent into that dark,
forboding hole. I have one of the flashlight with me as well.
Downward I inch as HUMA and T-man play out the rope that is my
only umbilical to the
world above. I hear nothing from below me and am getting more
concerned for Rolex as I
continue to descend.
My feet touch a solid surface. I move around a bit and am
convinced that I am on the floor of
the crevice. I take out the flashlight and start exploring the
area around me. Looking up, the
opening seems a mile away. Looking left and right, the crevice
seems to continue into total
darkness, and beyond. Looking down at my feet, I see that I am
standing on a ledge about
two feet wide. The crevice continues to drop from the ledge into
total darkness. The opening
is less than two feet. I can't imagine how a human being the size
of Rolex could possible have
fallen any further.
"What do you see?" yells T-man down to me.
"Nothing" I yell back. "And I don't hear a thing
either."
"Look around good, Bill. Someone was talking to us."
Rationalizes T-man
"I am looking around. Theres no way any of us could have
fallen any further than where I am
now.' I yell back up.
"Help me" comes that faint sound again. It sounds as if
it is coming from my right.
"I hear it now. Coming from me right. You'll have to walk the
rope down with me." I yell up.
"OK. Be careful. We'll follow you with the rope." HUMA
calls back.
I start side stepping to my right, facing the wall of the crevice.
I keep the flashlight working
around me feet and to my right. The ledge is fairly solid but
seems to be narrowing somewhat.
"Help me" There it is again. WHERE IS IT COMING FROM?
"Hello" I yell into the darkness to my right.
Nothing. No response. It's as if the voice does not hear me at
all.
Suddenly the ledge appears to disappear. I stop dead in my tracks.
"I am out of ledge room. Can't go any further." I yell
up.
No response from topside. What? I haven't descended any further.
I've only made a lateral
move.
"Hello up there" I yell, my face tilted skyward.
Nothing. Not a single sound.
This is just great! I say to myself. Now what do I do?
I make a gentle tug on the rope. It comes crashing down on top of
me.
HEY....WHAT IS THIS? WHO'S LET THE ROPE GO?
I quickly move to my left to gain more footspace on the ledge. The
rope has fallen all around
me, some of it going further down into the crevice.
"Bill, you alright down there?" It's HUMA.
"Who in the hell dropped the rope?" I demand "I was passing it to T-man when it
slipped outta my hands." HUMA attempted to explain.
"Just great, HUMA. Just really F*cking great!" I shout back.
"Now what do we do?"
"No more rope Bill. You got it all down there with you."
T-man yells down.
"Well, I ain't planning on spending the night down here, ya'
know!" I yell back sarcastically.
Fear had not yet addressed me. Anger has already tickled my
senses. Calm down, I say to
myself, good people do dumb things every day. I am thinking. Yeh,
but two good people
going dumb on the same thing, at the same time?
"How deep you think I am?" I shout upwards.
"We had about one full length of rope left." T-man
shouted back down. Each man's rope was
a twenty foot length of 3/8" diameter nylon rope. "I'd
say no more than 40 feet Bill." said
HUMA
"Think you could throw it back up to us?" yells T-man
"I will try" I said with some bitterness in my voice.
Repeated attempts to "throw" the rope upwards resulted
in only more frustration. The rope
wasn't heavy enough to provide the mass necessary for it to travel
the 40 feet vertically. After
about 6 attempts, we had just about given up hope.
"Wait a minute. " yelled HUMA.
"Do you have that brass ring with you Bill?" he yelled
"Yeh, I do" I said, suddenly remembering its 3 pound
weight.
"Try tying it on the end and then throwing it up." HUMA
shouted.
The crevice was barely narrow enough to turn around in. I had left
my rifle and pack-frame
on top before I descended. Normally, I would have had the brass
ring attached to the
pack-frame. But for some unknown reason, I'd run my cartridge belt
through it and so, it was
on my waist.
"OK, I'm ready." I called out. It was getting dark and
the hole at the top had turned from
bright blue to gray.
"Do it" yelled T-man.
On the fourth attempt, the brass ring carried the rope out of the
crevice. T-man was ready
and caught it immediately.
"Great!" I yelled out.
"We're gonna pull you up Bill." HUMA said.
"What about Rolex?" I shouted
"Lets get you up first, then we will figure out
something." HUMA shouted back.
The ascent was much slower. The rope had to be watched carefully
otherwise it could get cut
easily on the sharp edge of the crevice.
I finally reached the top edge of the crevice and was helped out
and onto my feet.
"What the HELL!" I exclaimed when I say Rolex standing
there, smoking a camel.
"Congratulations, Junglerat" HUMA said with a large
smile.
"Huh? " I was tired, thirsty, and most of all,
bewildered.
"You are now a full fledged member of the Club. That was the
last phase of your initiation,
and hopefully, a lesson well learned about the dangers of hunting
the PTA." T-man said as he
approached with his right hand held out.
Firm and accepting handshakes were given all around. I finally
realized that, in order to gain
the trust and confidence of the marines who might follow me into
hells "volcanic meadows" on
the PTA, I had to demonstrate the willingness and the courage to
fight the odds. Moreover, I
had to find out for myself the awesome power and limitless danger
of the centuries-old lava
that made up the island of Hawaii.
"If this was my initiation, you went to some extreme effort
for it" I said to HUMA, pointing to
the bandage on his head.
"Well., this..." HUMA said, patting his head gently,
"...was not exactly part of the plan." and
we all laughed.
"How did all this come about?" I asked. "Where'd
the call for help come from?"
.Rolex stepped forward with a small tape recorder, about the size
of a pack of cigarettes. He
opened it to reveal a cassette tape inside.
"I lowered it down on a small rope into
the crevice. Its timed to play at certain intervals. That
last call for help was off our timing a little but it didn't
matter none." Rolex said.
"What about the sheep, the shooting? That certainly could not
have been planned." I asked
incredulously.
"Oh, but it was indeed part of the plan." HUMA said.
"Another team has the sole duty of herding those sheep into
this high canyon, and watched us
as we approached the path opening." said HUMA.
"At the proper time, they actually stampeded the herd. We've
done this a lot in the past.
There's always one or more that try to run us down on the trail,
" T-man added.
"But I was not a fast on my feet as before. Daydreaming I
was." HUMA said as he pointed to his head.
"An elaborate scheme to get me to go down into a crevice,
eh?" I asked, still incredulous.
"Yes. But necessary. Our "HUMA" personnel are among
the finest we can identify and train." T-man said. "So, you are the head of the snake, I
take it?" I asked, looking at
T-man. "Welcome to the club, Junglerat." T-man said with a sly
grin on his face.
"Never speak of this day to anyone. Thats the fee you pay for
staying in the club." HUMA
said, as he stooped to pick up his gear.
The years have passed away before my very eyes. That day, on the
foot slope of Mauna
Kea, in the PTA, will remain with me until I die. The lessons
learned could not have been
"taught" any better, in any other way, that on that day.
I don't know if the club even exists today or not. I do know that
after that particular
weekend, we lost a dozen more members. And, I am certain some of
them attempted to "tell
all" when they got back to their homes.
But who would have believed them? huh?
End of Story.
Epilog
I believe every one likes a "good story". That is not to
say that mystories are "good". I've
never claimed to be a novelist, a story-writer or a politician.
What I put to print is rooted in fact
and reality. Certain "embellishments" are fundamentally
essential in order to compress a day or
week int a few chapters. Some details are left along the side of
the road.
But I am reminded that Wild Geese, while on their migratory path,
leave no one behind.
If one goose is tired or injured and must land, two other geese
land as well and will remain with
the tired or wounded goose until either the goose dies, or takes
off to rejoin the flock.
And so it is with most honorable men and women. At least, thats
been my lifes experience.
Whenever one needs help, there is someone there to render it....if
the one in need has been good
in deed.
Story-telling about the outdoors falls much into the same mold.
One printed story will be
read by many. Hopefully, each will take something from it of
benefit to their lives. And, it could
well spur another closet-author to come to daylight and share his
or her outdoors experience.
And that is why I do it. Theres no money in it. Money is, in fact
lost, because of it. Writing
deters me from my occupation. It has its own claims on my lifes
resources. But I enjoy doing it.
How much is true-life and how much is fiction? What does it
matter? There is both. The men
I write about actually lived. Many are still alive. The events
described actually took place. The
circumstances surrounding the events may have had some literary
license applied. But certainly
not enough to sway the theme from the true course of literary
rectitude.
Is there such a place as the "PTA"? Are there such
mountains as Kea and Loa? The answer lies
in geography......yes. Do such animals, in such numbers actually
exist on the big island as it is
called? During the time period I refer to, they certainly did.
Hawaii now has a Hunter Education
program, and licensing requirements. But during "my
time" such were of no concern to those of
us who "took to the high ground".
Were there such men as T-man, HUMA, Rolex, Brick, and Carrot? Most
certainly. Some reside
in Arlington now. Others now play with their grandchildren. And
others may never see the light of
freedom because they still remain behind, rotting away in bamboo
prison cells because our
current Commander in Chief has seen it "fit" to press
forward on the commodities trading front -
instead of the human exchange front that would bring all our
patriot americans safely back home.
And it is to the memory of those MIA's and POW's that I dedicate
all my efforts at telling stories.
Because, between the lines, they live. Between the lines lay their
honor, integrity, and sacrifice.
God Bless them all.