In memory of a pal

[Foxyboy43]

I first posted this saga some 3 years ago as this oul fella’s recollection of his introduction to (sort of) organised fox control. One of the merry bunch of eejits involved has since passed on - so in fond memory of Tom our “chisel-chinned tail gunner” I post it again…


“Hmmm. First serious foray at foxes was very many years ago when one of our small syndicate (joiner by trade - allegedly) offered to provide his transit van as a mobile lamping platform. A great idea and well received by the three of us who instantly had visions of the hours of endless fun we would have emptying countless dead foxes from said gun platform - how could we fail?
Soooo on the first night that suited all and strangely coinciding with no rain, we gathered at this chaps house and with understandable great pride he showed us his handiwork. The transit had been “trans”formed, 8x4 plywood sheets had been cut to size as a perfect fit for the, to us, cavernous innards, 2x4s had been bodged secured to extend the plywood floor out as far as the end of the now open double rear doors, a 2x4 rail had been jammed expertly fitted to the rear doors which now due to said “plank” were wedged fully open and he had even affixed a wooden frame to the roof (think of something oddly reminiscent of the Bridge on the River Quai) complete with pipe lagging to serve as a deluxe rest for the marksman - what a sight job! Off we set, sure what could go wrong? Now for context you have to realise that this was in Northern Ireland and at the height of what was fondly known - with some typical understatement as “The Troubles” and it should be acknowledged that we did a pretty good impression of the then popular Dads Army Corporal Jones’s butcher’s van - what fun we would have…...
It became clear early on that communication was a bit of an issue, coasting along in second gear the proud driver nor his co-pilot couldn’t hear our whispered request to stop should we two happy tailgunners first see eyeshine so after some thought the co-pilot happily relocated to the middle of the van as a sort of gun and sight-less mid-upper gunner who would relay our hushed scream request to stop each time any of the clearly dozens of foxes we were bound to encounter appeared. Job done. Sooo last minute checks - instrument panel - check, pilot in place -check, mid-upper gunner(less)in place - check, lamp man (moi) in place - check and last but not least our chisel-chinned tail gunner (with 22 magnum) in place - check. And so off we taxied…..fully rigged for silent running and all with no lights showing save that thrown from our repurposed motor bike headlamp. What a team - how could we fail……
It really was an unforgettable experience, well the first fox-less hour anyway, as we trundled along narrow frost-sparkled country roads in fruitless search of the bushy-tailed quarry, the time just flew…. Suddenly I froze (in truth I was already frozen) for there in the dim flicker of the lamp was a definite eyeshine in the far distance well ahead of us! The well-oiled (I wish) team that was us clicked smoothly into gear and the message that a bandit had been sighted at our 12 o’clock (I have no idea either) was surprisingly successfully relayed to the pilot with instructions to continue forward until requested to stop so that the shot could be taken. Slowly and very nervously we lurched edged forward to close the range to about one hundred yards, God the excitement was by now palpable, the distance was reducing all the time, the tail gunner was already bracing himself on the Heath Robinson rest (which alone probably equalled about three acres of Amazon Rain Forest clearance) and things were finally, finally, going to happen!!
And happen they did and in short order! The mid-upper gunner of course was inside the tomb-like van with no chance of seeing what was going on so far too quickly abandoned his post and came even more quickly sliding back to the rear-doors gun platform joining me and the marksman so that he too could witness the exciting events taking place. Now such was our joiner pal’s handiwork that there was indeed room for all three of us and all secure within the framework he had lovingly created. However, at just short of fifteen miles per hour one of the Laws of Physics decided to add to the fun, you know the one about levers? Such was the overhang of the rear shooting platform that when coupled with the weight of three strapping lads, the front wheels of the now almost airborne transit parted company with the “runway” and the pilot suddenly found that his err, joystick, got very, very light indeed. That and the obvious loss of his part in determining our direction only added to the fun so he did what any right-thinking chappie would do in these circumstances - panic and stamp on the brakes! This of course had the desired effect as the front wheels again made contact with the runway road and with rather surprising force (sodding physics again) - in aeronautical terms a bumpy landing, I believe. An unforeseen but probably quite prefictable byproduct of this of course was that the three blissfully unaware chaps at the rear suddenly went from a strangely silent fifteen miles per hour to dead stop in about ten feet. I can be sure of that measurement because that is the length of the very smooth purpose built sodding plywood-floored transit van from tail doors to the back of the two seats where all three of us and loaded rifle ended up in a tangle! Lord how we laughed!
Needless to say that was the end of our love affair with the gunship, in truth we were damned lucky not to have encountered one of the many army checkpoints at the time - can you imagine it - “here sarge, there is a very strange vehicle with no lights creeping towards us and two men with a rifle at the back….” but what an absolutely true story to share with all of you these very many years later”.

 

[Smellydog]

Them poor vegan's, they have no idea what they are missing out on.

Rest in peace Tom