Paul’s camouflage uniform blended in with the dead leaves that had accumulated around the base of the tree, making him nearly invisible. The only sign of his presence was the bipod and a short section of rifle barrel protruding from the leaf litter covering him. Paul held the rifle stock snug against his right shoulder and cheek, finger resting lightly on the trigger. He waited, relaxed and watchful.
A man in a forest pattern uniform stepped from behind a thick clump of brambles to Paul’s front. The man paused and looked about, wary and alert. Scanning. Listening. To Paul, the man acted as if he knew he was being watched.
Paul put the scope’s crosshairs on the man, saw the flag on the man’s uniform that identified him; an enemy soldier, a scout sent ahead to assess what was in the forest. Paul estimated the distance between them at no more than 200 meters; an easy shot, a piece of cake for a newly trained sniper like Paul.
As Paul put pressure on the trigger, the details of his first deer hunt, still sharp and clear after fifteen years, flashed through his mind. He remembered everything about that hunt; his failure, Uncle Ellis’ scorn, and the humiliation that consumed him afterward.
“I’m buying you a deer tag the day you turn twelve,” Paul’s Uncle Ellis said a few weeks before Paul’s twelfth birthday. “That’s my present to you. You’ll be legal then, boy, and you and me are going hunting.” Uncle Ellis tipped his head toward Paul’s father. “That is, if it’s all right with your old man,” he added with a smile.
The three of them were sitting at the kitchen table in Paul’s house, the two men drinking coffee. “It’s all right with me,” Paul’s father said. “But it’s up to the boy.” Both men grinned and looked at Paul. They knew what his answer would be.
“Then it’s all set,” Uncle Ellis said. “Deer season opens the first Saturday in November. Going to bag you a big buck. Your first kill. Mount that buck’s head on your bedroom wall. Something you can be proud of. The first thing you see when you wake up in the morning and say, That’s my deer. I killed it.” Uncle Ellis grinned at Paul.
Paul smiled, pleased to be with men he respected and loved.
“We sit here,” Uncle Ellis said, pointing at the remains of a tree that had fallen many years ago. They sat on the downed tree, peering into the leafless forest, waiting for their quarry to appear. Small, puffy white clouds formed in the cold air with every breath they exhaled, then winked out as quickly as they appeared. Neither of them said anything. After a while Paul started kicking at the deep leaf litter covering the forest floor. The leaves rustled like small dry bones being shaken in a tin cup.
Sensing Paul’s flagging enthusiasm, Uncle Ellis said, “There’s a salt block in that little clearing in front of us. You can’t see the block. The grass is too high. The deer can smell it, though. They have a hunger for that salt. We got to be patient and wait for them. They’re going to show. They always do.”
“Did you put the salt block there?” asked Paul.
“I sure did.”
“Isn’t that baiting? It’s not allowed. What if you get caught?”
Uncle Ellis laughed. “Who’s going to know I put it there? Are you going to rat me out?”
“No, I would never do that.”
“I know that, boy. We got to be quiet now. Stop kicking those leaves. If the deer hear us, they’ll shy away and you won’t get a shot. They’re skittish this time of year. Animals can sense when they’re being hunted.”
They sat quietly after that, peering into the leafless forest. Waiting. Paul’s feet began to get cold. He felt the chill creep up his legs and rise to his knees. He started to shiver and wondered how much longer he could sit on the downed tree without having to get up and move around to fight off the cold seeping into his body.
Uncle Ellis jabbed an elbow into Paul’s ribs and whispered, “Off to the left. See that buck? He’s heading for the salt block. That’s your deer. You’re gonna take him.”
Paul saw the deer, seventy-five meters away, walking slowly toward the clearing where Uncle Ellis said the salt block lay hidden in the dry grass.
“Now,” whispered Uncle Ellis and elbowed Paul again. The deer stopped. Its ears twitched at the sound of Uncle Ellis’ voice.
Paul stood, raised his rifle, put the scope’s crosshairs on the deer’s front shoulder, then lowered his rifle.
“Shoot!” hissed Uncle Ellis. The deer remained still then turned its head toward them, searching for the source of the noise. Paul shouldered his rifle again, sighted on the deer then lowered his rifle.
“Shoot it!” shouted Uncle Ellis.
Paul raised his rifle a third time but the deer, startled by the sound of Uncle Ellis’ voice, was bounding away from them, its up-raised tail waving like a victory flag. Paul watched the deer disappear into the leafless forest.
“Boy, what happened to you? That was a perfect shot.” Uncle Ellis shook his head, bewildered by Paul’s failure to shoot the deer. “Why didn’t you shoot?” When Paul didn’t say anything, Uncle Ellis said, “We got to go home. No use hanging around anymore. The deer know we’re here. They’re spooked. They’ll keep away now.”
“Worst case of buck fever I ever saw,” Uncle Ellis said to Paul’s father later that day. The three of them sat at the kitchen table, the two men drinking coffee. Uncle Ellis drummed his fingers on the table and looked at the boy. Paul sat with his head down, not looking at either man.
Uncle Ellis shook his head. “That deer stood there, big as you please, begging to get shot, but the boy froze up and that was that. He let that deer walk away. Was a fine buck, too. Had a great rack on him. Would have made a grand first kill.” Uncle Ellis drank more coffee, grinned, put his hand on Paul’s head and mussed Paul’s hair. “I’m going out tomorrow. I know where to bag me a big buck with a fine set of antlers.” Uncle Ellis stood and looked down at Paul. “You’re not cut out to be a hunter, boy. To be a hunter, you got to be able to kill something. You got to be able to pull the trigger.”
After Uncle Ellis left, Paul and his father remained at the table. Paul’s father put his hand on Paul’s arm and said quietly, “It’s all right.” They sat at the table and neither one said anything more for some time.
Finally, Paul looked up and said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I really wanted to shoot that deer. I really did. I raised my rifle and had it in my scope, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I don’t know why.”
“Sometimes these things happen, son. I know you feel terrible right now. I know you do and there isn’t anything I can say to make it better, but it will get better, Paul. It will.”
“My mouth went all dry and I couldn’t even swallow. I just stood there, holding my rifle and not doing anything.” Paul squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from coming out. “Uncle Ellis thinks I’m a loser. I let him down. I know I did.” Paul turned a stricken face toward his father. “I failed, Dad. I blew it. I’ll never be a hunter like Uncle Ellis.”
Paul kept the scope’s crosshairs on the enemy soldier. The man held his rifle at an angle across the front of his body. Leaning slightly forward, the man started walking in Paul’s direction, slowly, deliberately, as if every step required an enormous amount of effort and determination. Then the man stopped. Paul wondered if he had alerted the man by making a noise, by rustling the leaves or by making an imperceptible movement. No, not possible. He hadn’t made any noise, hadn’t moved. The man continued looking toward the tree where Paul lay hidden in the leaf litter. As if sensing something wrong, the man turned and started to go back the way he had come.
Not this time, Paul thought. “This one is for you, Uncle Ellis,” Paul whispered as he pulled the trigger.
Robert P. Bishop, an army veteran and former teacher, holds a Master’s in Biology and lives in Tucson, Arizona. His short fiction has appeared in Active Muse, Bright Flash Literary Review, CommuterLit, Fleas on the Dog, Friday Flash Fiction, Ink Pantry, Literally Stories, The Literary Hatchet, Lunate Fiction, Scarlet Leaf Review, Umbrella Factory Magazine and elsewhere.
You can find more of Robert’s work here on Ink Pantry.