10 November 2016
Military Manoeuvres
Noise in quiet places
by J.R.Thomas
Maybe you live in one of the wilder places of Britain; maybe you just dream of moving there; or merely you satisfy yourself with a week’s walking in August or on odd weekends (most of it spent on the motorway, stationary). But many of you, and your Shaw Sheet team, who spend our lives generating electronic impulses and transmitting them to the desk across the room, often allow our thoughts to drift to the wild countryside. How peaceful, we think, how unspoilt, how quiet and beautiful and serene.
Ha! Little do you know! Many a day those remote villages and lonely farms are disturbed in the early morning by convoys of vehicles rolling through, manned by grim fit gnarled men (and now, indeed, an increasing number of women), heading for action. They will have had their orders by commanders who brook no dissent or discussion; no modern management techniques here, no inclusivity policy, no breakout groups. Orders are given; and must be obeyed. Not just one convoy either. Roll over in bed and try to get back to sleep but soon the next one will be upon you, more powerful vehicles, more powerful occupants, and armed to the teeth with enough ammunition for the struggle they anticipate will soon be upon them.
Dare you follow these rolling convoys of vehicles as they thrust noisily through the narrow lanes and head for the wild lands above? We strongly advise against any such course of action. These men are armed, they are determined, and they value their privacy. They do not take kindly to intruders. They are, after all, out to kill; their ammunition is live, their weapons are in fine order, their support staff are fully trained, and they all have years of experience in their “craft”, if we might call it that.
And there are a lot of them; by the time the last vehicle roars past those quaint innocent cottages, blows dust into the village shop or splashes the poor rector with mud as they speed through puddles, there may well be up to fifty to seventy people up there.
There is money at stake, lots of money, and livelihoods, and perhaps most of all reputations. Interfere with a day’s grouse shooting and you will have some very angry men to contend with. Yes, grouse shooting. What did you think we were going on about? Military manoeuvres? Grouse shooting is the source of much of the income which keeps the wilder uplands alive. The money pays wages to permanent employees and casual retireds alike; it provides the owners of these remote and economically unviable places with money for upkeep and the management of what would become a landscape of scrub if left to itself, and it oils the social structure of an increasingly fragile society.
The Shaw Sheet likes to make for the hills every autumn, to see a way of life that is increasingly outside the experience of most urbanised westerners. Game shooting is not just about a, perhaps controversial, definition of “sport”, it is also about food – providing special and delicious meat to your autumn and winter table, meat that it is as about as wild as can be got. Pheasants and partridges are usually reared it is true, though an increasing number of shoots are going over to wild birds – which means that the birds are left to their own devices when bringing up their chicks, the gamekeeper’s only role being to prevent, so far as they can, incursions by predators such as foxes and rats, and to give a bit of supplementary feeding to help the young birds grow and stop them straying from their native heath. But whether the chicks are reared in incubators or are wild birds, they are soon freely roaming the countryside. In the case of grouse they are truly wild; nobody has ever found a way of rearing them; they make their lives unhindered by mankind on remote moors (a little medicated grit may be provided to prevent the various strange illnesses to which these shy birds are prone).
When we say “unhindered by mankind” that is of course until around about the middle of August, when a great deal of hindering begins. Hence our military misleading at the beginning of this article.
Once the birds are fit and can legally be shot, the battle begins. On the one hand, legions of men, women and children too, huge amounts of explosives, shotguns for the use of, men (almost all men in this instance) in funny trousers and an odd combination of formality – ties are de rigeur – and wet weather gear. On the other hand, one of the wiliest birds on the planet. For all the quasi army command structure and planning on the one side, the grouse has evolved a whole variety of plans to continue to live. It flies very low, skimming the heather. As it is almost exactly the colour of the moorland vegetation, and follows the undulations of the land, it is very difficult to spot by those waiting in the stone or turf butts. It often flies in coveys – tight knit groups swooping in formations the Red Arrows would be proud of, often breaking and scattering as they approach the line of guns. Most of them survive, wheeling away into distant valleys. The grouse swerve and climb and drop, doubling back along or across the regiment of flag waving beaters. Or they sit tight in the heather, clucking loudly and then suddenly rising like a jump jet under a startled beaters feet and screaming away – away from the butts.
A great deal of effort goes into trying to spot the elusive birds; flags are waved, dogs bounce up and down, the beaters shout and wave, the keeper supported by his troops will blow his whistle – once for one bird, twice for two, three blasts for a covey. Behind the butts the shooters have a loader- a factotum, batman, there to carry the kit, load the gun at high speed, and perhaps most important of all, draw the shooters attention to the birds coming toward him from all angle and directions.
In fact, the whole thing is like a very traditional nineteenth century army, heavily armed, engaged in battle with a modern high-tech air-force. (When the grouse finally evolves to have mini machine guns in its wing tips, it will have the keepers and all their old fashioned ways completely beat.) The keeper moves his men with flags and dogs according to the pre-formed plan, usually hallowed from long experience and then adjusted for the wind, the temperature, the experience and skill of the shooters. He is the general, communicating with his brigadiers by short wave radio, commands then passed on by pointing and bellowing. But this army does not even have the advantage of vehicles. It is on foot, struggling thorough long vegetation, stumbling into streams, sinking into unexpected peat bogs. Its opponent has speed and manoeuvrability, command of the air, and that strongest of incentives, an urge to continue living.
The army will leave the hill at the end of the day, tired and often wet through; maybe happy with the days “bag”, maybe not. The shooters themselves will almost certainly be happy; grouse are so difficult to shoot, that even one down can give a real sense of achievement. The grouse get their moor back, huddle down into the heather for sleep and ready to feed, and to cluck away the following day to torment the keeper with how many survived the latest instalment of the war.
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