Crossfire

by James Moloney

  In seconds they had caught up with the desperate animal. This time Jacko won the battle of wits. As the pig dodged from side to side, Jacko guessed that it would hint at veering away from the creek, but finally head that way. He was right. As the pig made his move and darted towards the protection of the undergrowth, Jacko was ready, neatly knocking the creature off his feet. The pig rolled over then stood still, dazed. The circling truck was now between it and the safety of the scrub. It set out again across the paddock, but Jacko quickly repeated his successful manoeuvre. The exhausted pig rolled a number of times in the dirt then halted, watching the vehicle recover its position for another charge. The pig was cornered now, its energy almost gone. Through its fear and desperation, fury burned. Standing its ground, it fixed a stare on its pursuer, head lowered, legs braced.

  This was the moment the men had anticipated. Wayne and Dave both slipped their rifles across the roof of the truck, calling out to Jacko as they did so. ‘Cut the engine, Jacko, and stay in the cab.’

  Luke watched his father shift the gun minutely into the best position against his shoulder, saw the moment of intense concentration, then came the sharp crack and the kick of the gun in his hands. Thirty metres away, the pig shuddered, and after a few seconds its front legs buckled. But its head maintained its angry glare. There was a roar from Dave’s gun and instantly a loud slap of impact and a puff of dust from the creature’s hide. The pig squealed and worked its back legs, trying to back away but managing only to draw a half-circle in the dust around its useless forelegs. This time Wayne took meticulous aim, and as the bullet crashed into the dying creature it rolled onto its side, head lolling, defiance drained away with its life.

  ‘You beauty!’ cried Wayne. ‘Clean kill. Come on, Jacko,’ he called, slapping the roof of the cab with his open palm. The truck rumbled into life and triumphantly approached the carcass. Jacko brought them alongside the body so that they could inspect it without leaving the safety of their elevated position. As far as Luke could see, the pig was dead, the flies already gathering at the open wounds. He placed a foot on the side of the truck, ready to jump down, but his father caught his arm and gently pulled him away. ‘Not yet, Luke. Can’t be too careful.’ Turning to Doggy, Wayne said, ‘Care to do the honours, mate?’

  Kieran Doggett replied by moving forward, bringing his rifle into position and thudding a round into the pig’s eye. Had there been the least flame of life left in the beast before this final blow, it was extinguished now. Luke followed the others onto the ground to inspect the kill. The pig was enormous, easily weighing more than any of the men. Now that he stood only a few feet away from it, Luke caught the appalling stink of the mud-caked hide. It was an ugly creature; Luke was repelled by it. He could see why these animals were despised and their destruction sought so eagerly.

  ‘Not a pretty animal, is it, mate,’ said Wayne, smiling and prodding the motionless body with his boot. ‘No tusks though. A fairly ancient sow, by the look of it. No trophies to take home.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Jacko after a few minutes. ‘The aroma’s not improving around here. Let’s get moving. Wayne, you’ve had your bit of fun. Want to take the wheel this time?’

  They all moved towards the vehicle.

  ‘What about the pig?’ asked Luke, still standing by the carcass. He felt there must be more to it than this.

  ‘Leave it there to rot, Luke,’ answered his father. ‘It’s no use to anyone. The crows and the flies will strip it down quick enough. Even other pigs will drop by for a feed. They’re not proud.’ Everyone laughed. Luke felt let down; the exhilaration of the kill seemed to demand more. But he scrambled into the front seat next to his father and they immediately jerked away, the rear tyres spraying the pig’s dead body with dirt and grass, like a dog carelessly covering up the mess it has left on the lawn.

  They prowled up and down the eastern bank of the river, enlivened by their early success, but after nearly two hours of fruitless searching they returned to camp to eat.

  After lunch the men lay in the shade for an hour while Luke, restless and eager for the thrill of another chase, fidgeted around the camp. When he tired of this he sat staring at his father’s Winchester, longing to heft it in his hands, to feel the wood and metal against his cheek and sight along the barrel. At last the men stirred from their siesta and Wayne spied his son held under the spell of the weapon.

  ‘Can I have a shot with this, Dad?’ asked Luke rather lamely. He knew the answer before it came.

  ‘Sorry, Luke. It’s a man’s rifle. Too powerful for a beginner. The recoil alone would knock you off your feet.’ He grasped the gun and held it across his body, noting with pleasure the envy and pride in his son’s eyes. An idea stirred in his mind, breaking a smile across his face. Turning to the others as they readied themselves to begin the hunt again, he called: ‘Dave, did you bring that twenty-two along this time?’

  ‘Sure did,’ came the reply. ‘It’s with the gear in Jacko’s tent.’

  Wayne paced quickly over to his mate and spoke quietly for a moment. Dave nodded. Whatever Wayne Aldridge had suggested seemed no bother to Dave.

  ‘Come on, Luke,’ Wayne shouted across the camp. ‘Time you learned to shoot.’

  The smaller rifle was quickly fetched; then, taking up Wayne’s Winchester, Dave joined Jacko and Doggy in the truck, which quickly pulled away. Father and son were left alone.

  The twenty-two was almost identical to CT’s, which Luke was already adept at handling, but he was careful not to give away the fact that he already knew most of what his father was telling him. On the contrary, he went out of his way to appear ignorant.

  Over the next few minutes the conversation went like this:

  ‘Now then, the rounds go in this magazine, see.’

  ‘What are rounds?’

  ‘The bullets, of course.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Okay. The magazine is spring-loaded. See the spring? Push down against it with your finger. Understand? Good. Each round is forced up into the breach when it’s needed by this spring.’

  ‘The breach?’

  ‘This part here, where the bullet slides into place ready for firing. Got it? Right. The magazine fits snugly into position from underneath.’

  ‘What’s this lever for?’

  ‘I’m getting to that. The bolt — see it there, sliding back and forward. The bolt is what scoops the round from the top of the magazine into the firing position in the breach. That’s why this rifle is called a bolt action gun. It works like this. You hold the lever up and use it to drive the bolt forward firmly, pushing the bullet into the barrel of the gun. When it’s closed, the round is in place. To lock it in, you push the lever down as far as it’ll go. Then you’re ready to aim and fire. You should always steady the gun against something solid. This tree stump will do. Watch. It won’t make as much noise as my gun this morning. I just squeeze on the trigger so as not to ruin my aim and …’

  ‘There, you see. Now you have to eject the spent cartridge …’

  ‘What’s the spent cartridge?’

  ‘The empty shell after the head of the bullet has been fired out through the barrel.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  ‘Anyway, when you lift the lever and pull back like this, the cartridge flies out — watch it doesn’t hit you in the eye — there it goes, and you are ready to slide the bolt forward again like I just showed you. Want to try?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Hold the stock in hard against your shoulder. There won’t be much kick with a pea-shooter like this, but if you don’t have the butt of the rifle in the right spot, it’ll bruise you all the same. Good, now, you line up your target with these two grooves at each end of the barrel. Can you do that?’

  ‘What will I aim at?’

  ‘Eh, that gum tree. The whitish one, see it? Ready, just squeeze the trigger, don’t pull suddenly on it. Oops, you jerked it away. Missed the tree. Never mind.’

  Luke had missed on
purpose. He had decided what he would do. After a few miserable attempts, he would suddenly get the hang of it and surprise his father.

  Wayne guided him through the procedure twice more. ‘You’re drifting the gun away from the target as you pull the trigger, Luke. Be patient, more sensitive, and concentrate on keeping the target fixed in the sights as you fire.’

  Luke hit the tree on the fourth try, and whooped in celebration. The magazine was empty now so Wayne showed his son how to reload it, then watched as he fired off the new set of five with improved results. But his father was becoming bored.

  ‘I’ll set up some cans for you, Luke.’ He set up five cans about thirty metres from Luke. It was time to show off a little, thought Luke, so after Wayne had retreated safely behind him, he calmly knocked over each can in succession.

  ‘Unbelievable!’ gasped Wayne. ‘I don’t believe it. Must be beginner’s luck.’

  Wayne set up the cans again and made Luke retire fifty metres this time. After the first three shots had scored hits, Wayne said, ‘You’re a natural, Luke. A born marksman. They’ll be calling you ‘Armalite Aldridge’ just like me.’ With that happy thought in mind and a vague worry that his father would become suspicious if he proved too good, Luke deliberately missed the last two. This made Wayne feel better, for he was able to clap him on the back and say what every father expects to say on such occasions: ‘Never mind, Luke, with a lot of practice you’ll hit the target every time.’

  For the next half hour, Luke braced himself across the tree stump and annihilated an army of yellow beer cans set at increasing distances away. His father looked on, applauding his successes and offering advice when he imagined his son’s technique was straying. But later, when Luke toppled five cans in a row at one hundred metres and looked up to share his triumph, he found that Wayne had wandered away to the shade, where he stood staring in the direction his mates had taken. Luke opened his mouth to tell his father what he had done, but the words died before they came out. Such a feat only meant something if it was witnessed at first-hand. He kept his achievement to himself.

  seven

  The truck returned around four o’clock and though Jacko, Dave and Doggy were cheerful and teased Wayne about staying behind, it was quickly apparent that the afternoon’s expedition had been disappointing. ‘Sweet nothing,’ Doggy summed up finally. ‘Two hours of circles in the dust and not a thing. Ah well, we should have a bit of fun with the spotlight tonight to make up. What do you reckon?’

  Luke wondered what ‘fun with the spotlight’ meant, but he was reluctant to ask any more questions exposing his ignorance. He could make a guess, however, having ‘spotlighted’ on the school camp with his mates to observe possums and owls, though he suspected that Doggy had something a little different in mind. He turned out to be right.

  With the warmth of the day quickly seeping into the darkness of a clear winter’s evening, the truck set off on its third hunt of the day. This time its headlights picked out the way and a restless third eye darted from side to side from above the cabin. Jacko had rigged up a hand-held light with the power of a car’s high beam, so that the men in the rear could scour the ground on all sides, locating and identifying the creatures that ventured forth at this hour. It was the eyes that gave them away, explained Wayne.

  ‘They reflect this light back at us like tiny mirrors. Sometimes the strength of the light dazzles them and they squat there begging to have their little heads shot off their shoulders. Rabbits are the worst. So dumb, you won’t believe it till you see it.’

  ‘We ran across a big warren this arvo. Not far away,’ said Jacko. ‘Might as well head that way and see if we can pick up a fox.’

  For Luke and the others huddled in the open rear, the speed of the truck increased the chill of the night air, the bitter fingers of cold finding their way inside the sleeves of Luke’s sweater and the cuffs of his jeans. Across his chest Luke clutched the twenty-two rifle which had become almost an extension of his body ever since his father had let him fire off that first round. There was no magazine in place, rendering the weapon completely safe, but the boy was reluctant to lie it down. As a result, he had no free hand to hang on with. Luckily Jacko was as cautious in the darkness as he had been reckless during the day.

  The spotlight raked back and forth across their path, holding a pair of eyes here and there until one or another of the men called: ‘No, that’s a roo. Leave it,’ or: ‘Green eyes. Another flamin’ sheep.’ Finally Doggy tapped the top of the cabin a few times. ‘Jacko, I think that rabbit warren was away to the left from here. What d’you say?’

  The truck veered onto the rougher ground and after a few minutes Doggy spoke to Wayne, who controlled the light. ‘Back this way, mate. Under that thin scrub.’ The spotlight darted drunkenly for a moment then a soft chorus of satisfaction went up. Two rabbits had scurried through the beam, stopping for a second then rushing on into the darkness.

  Jacko edged the truck a little farther forward then killed the engine while Wayne played the spotlight carefully over the ground ahead, occasionally whispering, ‘There, that’s one,’ then moving on again. At first Luke could not see why his father halted the light at these points, nor what it was he seemed so pleased about. But gradually, he detected movement and his eyes were able to distinguish the dull brown coat of the rabbits amongst the dirt and bark of fallen trees.

  Then without warning came the call: ‘Come on, Luke, get that gun ready. It’s time you made your first kill.’

  Luke was stunned. He had hardly dared hope this moment would actually come. He laid the rifle out across the cab of the truck, as he had done a thousand times in the bush with CT looking on. But the ease and confidence he’d known with his mate deserted him as he sighted along the barrel at the rabbit that Wayne’s beam held illuminated.

  ‘Hey, come on, Luke. You’re embarrassing me,’ complained Wayne. ‘Do it properly, like I showed you — and you’d better slip a magazine into place first, or you’re wasting your time.’

  Luke felt his face flush. He was glad the intense light of the spotlight forced everything behind it into a contrasting darkness. He felt in his pocket, found the magazine and lodged it in place. The darkness meant he had to do everything by feel; and he realised with a surge of hope that this could only help him. The automatic sequence of actions returned to him now and he let them take their course. Lever up and back, now firmly forward and pull the lever down. Stock resting in the right place in the shoulder. Sight along the barrel carefully. Just the slightest pressure on the trigger, keeping the aim steady to the very last … The gun barked briefly in his hands. He had fired at his first live target. It was over. He’d done it, and done it all correctly. He was so pleased with himself that he paid no attention to the result of his shot; it was only the cheers of the others that startled him into taking a look. The rabbit lay motionless on its side and though at that distance it was difficult to tell exactly how accurate Luke’s effort had been, a fleck of blood smeared the fur on top of the head.

  Wayne wrapped his arm around his son and crushed him playfully. ‘Hey, terrific, Luke! I was worried there for a second that you were going to choke up on us, but you showed these clowns what we Aldridges are made of. You were great.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ muttered Luke. ‘Lucky first shot, I suppose. Just a fluke.’

  ‘Fluke nothing, eh, fellas,’ blustered Wayne. The others cheerfully agreed. ‘You’re a natural,’ his father concluded.

  Luke had never been so proud in all his fourteen years. This was the best day of his life. He’d seen his father dust off a pig with a miraculous shot, he’d impressed his father with his marksmanship, and now with his first attempt he’d killed a rabbit, earning the praise of every man present.

  ‘Well, come on, Luke. Can’t rest on your laurels. Show us you can do it again.’

  ‘That’s right, Luke,’ joked Doggy. ‘Second time’s the hardest. You’ve got your reputation to protect.’

  The shock of t
he gunfire had scattered the animals for the moment, but within minutes they began to re-emerge in an area away from the first victim.

  ‘What did I tell you, Luke. Dumbest creatures on God’s earth.’ Wayne played the light amongst the bushes until he caught another rabbit in the full glare of the beam. It crouched petrified by the brightness, its terror freezing its natural urge to scurry away. It presented a much easier target than the first one as Luke went into his drill once more. He aimed carefully, but his concentration had been disturbed by his success, and at the last moment as he applied the final touch of pressure to the trigger, he let the tip of the barrel deviate the slightest fraction. The gun jumped and there was a simultaneous thwack as the bullet found its victim. The rabbit leapt straight upwards into the air as though it had been tugged from above by an invisible string. Then it thudded to earth again on its side, kicking its legs frantically and shuddering violently.

  ‘You hit it at least,’ commented Wayne calmly, without enthusiasm. ‘Must have struck it round the belly, near the back legs maybe.’

  ‘Is it dead then, Dad?’

  ‘Well, it ain’t going to get better, Luke, but I doubt it’s dead just yet.’

  ‘Should I take another shot? Put it out of its misery?’

  Before Wayne could answer, a strange high sound, part whistle, part squeal, reached them out of the darkness. Luke peered into the night, suddenly frightened. He knew what the noise was even before his senses could confirm it. It was the rabbit screaming. Though it was a thin, fragile sound, it seemed to fill the blackness all round, making Luke realise how cold his hands and face really were and how the night air could reach in and chill the flesh around his heart. He was filled then with one need, one thought. He wanted to silence the poor creature, to hasten its death and put an end to that shrill and dreadful cry of agony.

  Luke moved into position across the cab and began his preparations, but his father placed his hand on the gun in front of Luke’s face. ‘Hold on. Let the wretched thing squeal a bit. Never know what might turn up.’