But the going was more difficult than the previous trip as the river was much lower and we wore ourselves out with the constant pushing or portaging across sand bars. On one occasion however, we made remarkable progress down one of the few uninterrupted stretches of water when a howling wind arose from astern and lashing us with sand from the parallel sandbars, propelled us rapidly downstream by the pressure of the gale against the uplifted blades of our curved paddles. We arrived at our camp site at about 4 p.m. and agreed that if there was no rain upstream which would bring more water into the river, we would have to give up our trip.
We were joined later that evening by Bill Baker who was on an elephant patrol having received reports of the big pachyderms raiding the peasants' crops in the vicinity. The next day he went off to investigate whilst Tony and I, having seen to our regret that no rain had fallen and the river was even lower, abandoned our plans and enjoyed the day strolling round the bush game-viewing in the vicinity of the camp. We all had a pleasant drink and dinner and chat before turning in, but I was in a bit of discomfort because I had somehow managed to get a thorn in my foot.
The next morning Tony suggested we look for an impala for the pot, but I declined because of my sore foot. Bill Baker suggested that I come with him in his short-wheel base Landrover looking for elephants. I could not take part in the hun tbecause I only had my .22 rifle with me, but I was content just to come for the ride. Bill was armed with a formidable .416 Rigby rifle, loaded with hard nosed ammunition for elephant. About eleven kilometes beyond Tuli police camp, in thick riverine forest where the present Bili irrigation scheme is, Bill's tracker in the back of the Landrover tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a pair of lions about 50 metres away to our left. He stopped, quietly got out and fired at the male lion which fell back with a roar, thrashed around in the bush and then was still. Discretion being the better part of valour, he then manoeuvered the vehicle to where the lions had been and found that they had both disappeared, but heavy blood spoor was seen leading towards the thickest part of the forest. We followed the blood spoor as far as possible before conditions became impossible even for the Landrover. I then fired a few shots with my .22 in to the forest vainly hoping for some reaction.
Our resources not being equal to the occasion we then returned as fast as possible to the Tuli police camp to obtain reinforcements in the shape of Sergeant Gerry Day (later Senior Assistant Commissioner and Officer in charge B S A Police Matabeleland) and Constable Colin Case, and three scrawny dogs belonging to the local labour force. I exchanged my .22 for the police 12 bore shot gun which unfortunately had only one round, of SSG, heavy buck shot, while the police men brought their .303 service rifles. We rushed back to the scene after a quick bite and something cool to drink and set the dogs on the trail. Being indigenous dogs and instinctively alive to the danger they could smell, they would have nothing to do with the scene and retired under the police Landrover insensitive to the curses heaped on them. So with only Bill's bull terrier to assist us, we started the tense anxious task of tracking the wounded lion. The search started about 2 p.m. and the spoor wound in and out of the patch of forest, crossed and recrossed a small river bed, and was joined, much to our consternation, by the spoor of the lioness.
We also came across fresh tracks and dropping of Bill's original quarry, the elephants, which had obviously decamped rapidly from the area when they heard the sound of the shot. Exitement rose to high pitch when Bill's bull terrier, who rejoiced under the name of Pig, nosed his way into a thick patch of malala palm scrub and then tore out hackles up, growling fiercely. We retreated and weapons ready, threw stones into the patch. There was a wild flapping and out flew a loudly protesting red-necked francolin.
Just past this malala patch the spoor split again. Bill, Colin and I took the left hand track, which soon revealed a drop of blood in the small clearing about 5 metres across and almost surrounded by thick bush.
As Bill turned to whistle up the other members of the party, all hell was let loose. From the bush, which had been concealing him, sprang the lion, a great khaki mass, a roaring fury which came straight for me. I remember letting out a wild yell of fright at the same time firing my single round of buckshot from the hip straight into his face. Even if every pellet missed him, it had the effect of diverting the charge from me and he went for Bill who fired at point blank range with his .416. He must have missed or inflicted a flesh wound because the lion came on and with a dreadful, throaty growl bowled him over onto his back and started gnawing his foot, ripping off a boot and gaiter. Then it came towards his head. He was about to ward it off with his hands but had the presence of mind to lie back and kick at it with his other booted foot, meanwhile scrambling around frantically for his rifle. While this was going on I beat at the lion with my empty shotgun and screamed for someone to bring me a .303. Colin Case's .303 had jammed so I grabbed it from him, found it was on half cock, pulled back the bolt and fired again at the lion's head. I think I hit it too high. Bill in the meantime had found and reloaded his .416, and was about to fire it into the lion's open mouth when my shot with the .303 diverted it and springing up from Bill, it leapt at me again and knocked me down and started to gnaw on my left knee. My yelling for help must have drawn his attention because he then came for my face whilst I frantica lly tried to push him away with my hands.
The sight of those bloody, slavering jaws and wild yellow eyes and the foul smell of the lion's breath will always remain a dreadful memory. Strangely enough, I can still remember seeing a tick on his left eyebrow! Then at the periphery of my vision I saw Bill approaching and just as the lion's jaws were about to close on my throat there was a loud explosion, a violent jolt in my left shoulder and the lion collapsed dead on top of me. I remember shouting "Get the bloody thing off me". They pulled it away and I looked down at my shoulder and saw a pulpy mess of flesh through my torn shirt. I said "My God, you've shot me" and poor old Bill, who had saved my life, muttered his apologies.
Gerry Day had arrived by this time from where he had been following the other track, assessed the situation and rushed to the police Landrover which was only 200 metres away to get the first aid kit. They put my left arm in a sling, made me a strecher of leafy branches, and carried me to the vehicle while Bill, both legs a mess of deep bites and scratches, staggered along beside me.
I was put in the back of the Landrover with someone to hold me steady over the rough road and driven carefully back to Tuli police camp where my dreadful wound was dressed to the best of Gerry's ability. While this was going on, a herd of elephants, probably the ones Bill had been after, crossed the Tuli river in full sight. Two coir mattresses were then placed in the back of the Landrover and I was placed on them. Shock seemed to have made me incapable of walking. Gerry then drove us in to Gwanda hospital. On the way, Bill stopped at Tuli Breeding Station and telephoned his wife to warn my wife that we were on our way in, "having had a bit of a brush with a lion, and having got a bit scratched". Our dear wives were waiting at the Gwanda hospital and were deeply shocked to see the state we were in. I had bled right through the two mattresses and Bill had bled extensively from his leg wounds. We were patched up and early the next morning taken to Bulawayo General hospital where I was operated on and Bill was patched up again. It was found that the entry of the bullet had caused severe flesh lacerations as it skidded sideways through my shoulder after penetrating the lion's brain. Thence it had passed close to the shoulder joint and artery, not hitting either, and passed out neatly point first, behind my shoulder. Somehow or other, I was told, the bone had been shattered although the bullet had not hit it directly - shock waves or something. Anyway, the bone was put together, the ragged flesh sewn up and I the n remained in heavy plaster for six weeks but only in hospital for one week. I regained 100% use of my shoulder in a few months.
I was then told that if the bullet had passed half an inch in any other direction I could have bled to death or suffered permanent disability. At no time did I suffer any bad pain, and I never had a nightmare about that experience. Many people asked me what my thoughts were at that time and I was able to reply quite truthfully that all the time the lion was over me and coming towards my face, I was thinking "Someone must come and get this thing off me. What a shocking sight and what unpleasant breath!"
The lion's skin was unfortunately lost, for the police labourers who were instructed to go and skin it the next day did not do so as they were frightened that the lioness would be waiting for them. When they did go, it was too late, and the skin had started to rot.
When examined, the remains showed to some extent what had probably happened. Bill's first shot had been too high, striking the lion's shoulder. My shot gun blast had luckily damaged the lower jaw with the result that the lion had not been able to close his jaws properly on us. Most of our wounds were inflicted by it raking its top jaw over our limbs. My .303 shot had travelled through the bone over the eye, not touching the brain. Bill's final shot went right through the brain causing instant death. Had he loaded his rifle with soft nosed ammunition the lion would probably have died from the first wound within an hour, but again, had I been hit with a soft nosed bullet, I would have indubitably bled to death. Someone was looking after me that day!
My sympathies were entirely with the poor old lion, innocently going about his business with his mate, being shot without warning and then doing his best to defend himself.
Nothing in my hunting experience can compare to my tussle with the lion, but several other small experiences from many years ago are etched in my mind. I was never an expert or even a competent bird hunter and never even owned a shotgun except for the most extraordinary weapon that I acquired once, which consisted of a double barrelled combination hammer gun, one side being a 12 bore shotgun the other a .450 Martini. The first bird that I shot on the wing was a knob-nosed duck which was flying at a height of about 50 metres directly above my head. With the gun pointing vertically upward, I gauged the correct distance ahead of him to aim as I squeezed the trigger and he fell at my feet - a real stroke of luck. Another incident involving bird shooting was when a red-necked francolin fell to Pete Wood's shotgun in the middle of a pool on the Mondi river which contained several large crocodiles. It was a still hot afternoon with no breath of air to blow the bird towards the bank. After waiting a while it was obvious that if we wanted to have it for supper we would have to go and get it. I stripped and Pete fired two shots into the water, one on either side of the bird. I then dived in and swam as fast as I could, grabbed it and swam back to sighs of relief all round.
An easier bag was when walking down a narrow path in the riverine forest near the Shashi river one day, I saw several guinea fowl running along in front of me. When one is on patrol and in need of fresh meat one does not worry too much about what is the done thing, so I took aim at the five or six bouncing heads that I could see and let fly. When we went to see the result, we picked up a genuine twelve dead or dying guinea fowl, wrung their necks and took them back to camp for a feast of tasty game bird.
My first impala was a very lucky shot. We had been walking for hours in the heat of the day. I was carrying an old borrowed .303 rifle when about 50 metres away we saw a small herd of impala. I was about to draw a bead on a big male when they caught our scent and went bounding away with the spectacular jumps for which impala are so well known. I let fly at the male in mid leap when he was about two metres off the ground and he fell stone dead. I kept his fine horns as a trophy and only many years later decided to have them officially measured by the National Museum. They measured 23 inches round the curve and so found their way into the Rowland Ward Records of Big Game, Edition XV, which had a base-line of 21 inches for Southern Impala. Any horns above that length are eligible for inclusion. I have Rowland Ward's handsome black tie with its silver kudu and the cipher XV between its horns.
My one and only eland trophy was served up to me on a plate so to speak. I was using a very fine German weapon consisting of a double barreled 12 bore shotgun with, between and beneath one .303 rifle. We were hunting in the gusu forest of northern Matabeleland, my brother-in-law on the ridge and I in the valley. I heard a commotion and saw a huge eland bull break cover and commence to trot down from the ridge towards me. I could see that if he was not interrupted he would cross my path only about 30 metres in front of me. I lowered mysely carefully to the ground, took up the classic posture used in range shooting and waited for him to cross the track on which I was lying. As he trotted past I aimed just in front of his shoulder and squeezed the .303 trigger. He fell on the spot and his magnificent horns can now be seen gracing the front entrance of Gaul House, Plumtree School, where my two sons had their excellent education.