It is not often that wildfowlers get a second chance when making a mistake with water, the elements, dogs and guns all providing their own hazards . Tommy Lineham, a fisherman and punt gunner from Fosdyke gave the following account referring to both his and Harry’s separate narrow escapes when accidentally discharging punt guns:
“I was pulling the punt gun up and I got one in the head, one in the cheek, and several in the body. A chain caught the trigger and only half-cocked the gun, if it had cocked it fully I would have been alright, but it went off when I was four or five yards in front of it peppering some houses some way away. It was a miracle. It should have been fatal. One went in my head, hit the bone and came out again so that was rather lucky, but Harry, if I can remember right, he had 12 or 14 shot through his hat, but it cut his nose in half. I can always remember seeing his nose flopping about.”
In January 1846 The Guardian recorded this fowling accident on Cowbit Wash:
“A MAN SHOT IN MISTAKE FOR A WILD DUCK – On the night of Tuesday last, a person named Gooderson, while in his fowling skiff in Cowbit Wash, fired at what he considered to be a group of birds; but was horror-struck when he immediately afterwards discovered the object of his aim was his old comrade Jackson, who like himself was in pursuit of birds; but faint hopes are entertained of poor Jackson’s recovery.”
Bad visibility in low light requires extra care as illustrated by this Spalding Wildfowler in 1963:
“One early September night my friend and I decided to try our luck at decoying ducks in a nearby drain. On both sides of the drain were fairly thick reeds, so my mate and I spaced ourselves out, I should say roughly about 200 yards apart. We soon got our decoys set out and retired to the reeds to watch and wait. As we waited we had quite a few false alarms, such as plovers whipping over the bank, little knowing they had put a tense body to put a gun to its shoulder then disappointedly put it down again., the dog turning its face towards you wondering why you hadn’t fired. Then the rats in the reeds started moving, the odd water hen gives a little cry and everything is peaceful. It is getting dusk now and its impossible to see my friend. I was beginning to think we were out of luck when suddenly two shots rang out up river, followed by a loud splash. I knew my friend had got one down. I just happened to glance to my left to see two mallard dropping into my decoys. Whether it was due to excitement I do not know but I completely missed with my first shot then connected with my second, bringing down a nice mallard drake which was nicely retrieved by my dog. It was then getting dark so I started to fetch my decoys in when, “swish”, a duck landed in the river directly in front of me, in the same instant it had seen me and with a loud note of protest started to depart into the dusk. With a quick snapshot, much to my surprise, it dropped into the river, my dog was onto it immediately. As he got near to it the duck started flapping and dived making for the reeds, the dog after working the reeds for a few minutes had still not located it so I made my way to the waters edge to see if I could make out what was going on. Looking downriver I saw a ripple and a flat dark object making for my side of the river, thinking it would be easier to shoot a winged bird rather than try and catch it I put my gun to my shoulder and fired. The dark object continued towards the bank, got out and came towards me. It was my dog. I felt with nervous fingers to see if I had hit him, at least I expected him to be blinded or seriously injured. As he turned his head up toward me, I knew I had learnt a lesson, which I, as an experienced wildfowler, should have known better, that is, always be sure before squeezing the trigger.”
Of course gun safety is an issue to anyone holding a gun and wildfowler’s activities were not confined to the marsh. This tale of a Spalding Wildfowler from 1967 tells of a man being shot twice, by the same person ten years apart:
“I have written before about safety. This time I will tell you about a friend of mine, a member of this Association, who was shot twice by the same man!
I belonged, as a sort of honorary member, to a farmers’ syndicate shoot. One lovely crisp bright November morning (there were about 14 guns that day) seven of us were walking up some roots whilst the others were ‘Lined up’ the other side of the hedge at the far end. When we were about 40-50 yards from the hedge there was a bang accompanied almost instantaneously by a purposeful spattering of pellets into the greens. I looked around to see the ‘N’ drop his gun and hop around on one foot, holding his other knee up to his chest. It took a day or so in hospital to have a couple of pellets removed from under his kneecap. I forbear to report on the language.
The second occasion, ten years later, took place on the same shoot and in similar circumstances, but this time the ‘N’ was only pricked in the neck and hand with a hole or two in his coat for good measure.
The culprit, on each occasion, had fired at a hare disappearing through the hedge, instead of concentrating on the job in hand – pheasant shooting. Unfortunately, the culprit (I would not name him) owned some of the best cover on the shoot so he could not be sacked, but needless to say he was watched very carefully after that.”
Wildfowling was not an all male preserve, although it was often dominated by men with very sympathetic wives as they put up with their gardens being turned to mud by duck rearing, or tired and muddy husbands arriving home with an equally tired and smelly dog mid-morning after an early morning wildfowling trip. One long-suffering wife described the following as the season started in September 1968:
“Many articles have been written of the experience of wildfowlers, has anyone thought of the wife who stays at home? Fortunately we live close to a wildfowl marsh, so I do not loose my husband for weekends or even a week, but living in a ‘fowling area the majority of visitors are shooting men and therefore I have to listen to shooting experiences of the near misses, the stalking, the best guns, cartridges and general equipment. But the climax is Friday and or Saturday evening, the preparation for the next morning’s flight.
First the numerous pullovers and socks, wildfowling jacket, plus an old one for extra warmth, not forgetting the gun (he did forget it once) and a belt full of cartridges many of which have been to the marsh scores of times, thigh boots by the door, binoculars, camera, a flask ready for coffee and I suspect a very generous dash of rum, and so the kitchen represents an army surplus store. We mustn’t be late to bed an early morning tomorrow, the tide time, weather and moon have been studied, and the alarm clock set at some unearthly hour, then at this hour the whole household is awake. It has been known for no one to hear it and so the preparation has been in vain and the air rather ‘blue’ and , of course, I get the blame. I should have heard the alarm. Eventually all is quiet again, the fowlers have gone and we can get some more sleep.
It is anyone’s guess what time they will be back ready for a huge breakfast, but dare I ask what they have shot? Usually it is nothing, ‘they were too high’ or ‘just a little out of range’; ‘If only I had been a bit further to the left or right. I’ll know just where to be tomorrow.’ ‘The flight line had moved.’ I think they are the usual remarks . But an enjoyable time was had by all, despite no shots being fired, the rain, fog, or snow or both.
To me, a mere woman, it seems a ridiculous sport but dare I say so, not on your life and it is no good thinking it will end on February 21st, as then the time is wished away and conversation is based around September 1st once more. In the meantime during the closed season any suggested ride out results in, you’ve guessed it, the marsh!”
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