How's things in Germany?

 

Editor’s Note: I was assigned to the US Army Headquarters for all of Europe located in Heidelberg, Germany in August 1985. A few months after arriving I was promoted to major. Having never been to Europe it was an exciting adventure for all of us. This article was a response to a letter I sent Conrad soon after my promotion.

Dear Vernon:

Got your letter yesterday, and it sure was good to hear from you. Congratulations on the promotion. Making Major in today’s army is no mean feat. Sorry to hear the raise in pay falls considerably short of matching the newly acquired status. Major Vollertsen: it has a ring to it. Nancy’s bound to be proud. I know Dad is.

I feel certain that it was no coincidence your letter arrived at the height of the hunting season as it did. It must be nice living in Germany, and touring all of Europe in your free time, but did I read a note of whimsy between the lines?

What could be better than a covey rise off the side of a plum thicketed hillside where the dogs stand staunch chest deep in yellow brome? Or the military charge of a flock of mallards sailing straight into the decoys, green heads and purple speculums catching the rays of a newly risen sun? Or the magical appearance of a buck along a deer trail in a hardwood forest turned to brown crystal by a frosty morning so cold it numbs your toes?

No, that’s all pretty good stuff, and the kind you used to get plenty of when you lived back in the good old U.S. of A. Did I understand you right about all the hunting rules and regulations over there in Germany?

That you have to take a six-month long hunter education course before you can even make application (make application, mind you!) for a hunting license? And all that paperwork in order to buy a gun?

And then you only hunt inside fenced preserves where a burgermeister (game keeper) follows along and tells you exactly which deer, rabbit, or pheasant you can shoot? Exactly which one? Boy, they sure are civilized over there. Hunting, there, sounds like lots of fun. All of that is hard to believe. You can bet none of it will ever happen here.

Pam, Sarah, Rode, and I spent the four-day Thanksgiving weekend camped out down at Demon Mountain trying to put a deer in the freezer. The camping was great.

The big 12 x 14 wall tent held all of us; the little sheepherder stove kept us warm and baked biscuits and cookies brown. At night the owls and coyotes sounded like they were right there in the tent with us. You forget sometimes how thin a piece of canvas is, until you hear something moving around on the other side of it. It was fun.

But, we didn’t get a deer. Some of the locals had burned off the countryside the week before the season opened so as to concentrate the deer in pockets of cover only they could hunt. Then, too, spotlighters kept us up a good portion of the night.

The sound of a single, distant gun shot at two in the morning down in that country tells a pretty concise story, and one that everyone understands.

You wouldn’t believe the numbers of trespassers, road hunters, and beer drinkers cruising the countryside. And the stories they make up! Some of them need to get in the writing game.

It’s autumn here in Oklahoma and whereas you didn’t say anything about it in the letter, I’ve got to believe that fall here is pretty much like fall there.

The globe shows Germany to be in the little bit more northerly latitude, but not that much. I bet people burn leaves over there. I bet you can smell them burning. I bet the sun strikes the smoke into thin blue columns that are nice to look at from a distance.

I’m going to burn some leaves here shortly. Then I’m going to do something I bet they don’t do over there. I’m going to take the shotgun down off the rack, scrounge up a pocketful of sixes, rustle up Sarah, Rode, and Bear, and head off down into the bottom to see if we can’t scare us up a rabbit before dark.

It’ll be fun. It’ll be free, and if we’re going to do it, I’m going to have to hurry and finish this and get after the leaves.

Tell Nancy, Mark and Jennifer that we love them and will be thinking about all of you at Christmas. Say, you haven’t forgotten what roast duck tastes like, have you? Can you still swing a shotgun?

                                                                                             Your Big Brother,

                                                                                              Conrad

© 1985 Conrad Vollertsen

 

 



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